


The Joy of Creation

by FKAHerSweetness



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Horny Will, M/M, Murder Husbands, Mute Will, Narcissism, Post S3 Finale, Sex, Sexual exploration, Surrealist, Will's rebirth, adoring Hannibal, fictional S4, multi-chaptered, self-confident Will, slow-build, slow-burn, tag-team killing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 54,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4748453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FKAHerSweetness/pseuds/FKAHerSweetness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Atlantic has dissolved the old Will Graham. Hannibal begins construction on the new one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wet from Birth

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[中文翻译] The Joy of Creation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6615433) by [daisy_q](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisy_q/pseuds/daisy_q)



The ocean spat them out. Will remembers it distantly, almost as if it were someone else's memories. Him writhing on the beach, gasping, gurgling screams of terror as if he were still in the deep. Just a foot away, Hannibal sat, half leaning back on one hand, other hand cradling his right side. He stared at Will, expression plain but eyes bright with mirth. Will craned back his head, saw Hannibal in the dawnlight haloed by grey-pink sky. He screamed loud and long, and finally Hannibal smiled.

            A long time later, he said:

            "You were so alive. So alive and gripped by raw trauma, like we were still at the mercy of the sea. I was pleased to see you so tenacious, Will."

            Will didn't feel tenacious – he felt ill, and hurt, at first. Yes but only at first.

                                                                       *                                                                        

Hannibal can probably smell it on him – desperation for stability. Something substantial to hold onto, cling to, after tossing his own self off a cliff. Hannibal, like all Will had ever needed, stands ready to provide. He takes Will, still crying out in garbled high-pitchedness, from the pebbly beach that had received them. The cliff still in sight, maybe two miles away, looming over the sea and watching them limp off into the underbrush and the woods beyond that.

            Will allows himself to be led; he doesn't know where they're going anyway. Where they should go. What they should do. Questions swim aimless in his head, little more than uncertain annoyances.

            The big things:

            His cheek burns.

            His shoulder throbs.

            He's pretty sure his head was bashed against a rock in the current. He was washed clean for a while, after he emerged from the ocean, but now everything is bleeding anew and he looks as if he has come straight from the birth canal: soaked red and nigh immobile.

            Hannibal leads him gently through thickened overgrowth, away from the salty scent of sea, the drum of the Atlantic. Deeper into the verdure, where sunlight barely reaches. Will stumbles, leans on Hannibal's proffered forearm. This must hurt him too. He doesn't say so – he looks straight ahead and Will looks straight at him. Blood from the cut on his forehead runs down into his left eye.

            How long do they tramp through the brush? Dawn has turned to day, evident by harsher sunlight near the green boughs overhead. Some reaches the basin and an aurous bubble heats where the two are joined: Hannibal's forearm, Will's bloody hand. Will feels like he's on his last leg, tries to tug on Hannibal to tell him. Then, suddenly, Hannibal stops and he ushers Will a few steps back, using his sturdy frame to push him into the bark of a tall sugar maple.

            Hannibal says, "Stay here, until I come back for you."

            Will doesn't understand much (the light the sounds the strange feeling of solid ground under his feet where once there was sea and air) but he understands that Hannibal means to leave him alone. He sags down against the tree, the sharp knots of wood jutting against his back. He makes an unintelligible cry, grabs at Hannibal's ragged grey sweater.

            "Stay, Will." Hannibal leaves.

            Will crumbles to the ground and his vision goes fuzzy. He tries not to mewl but he mewls anyway, raising his hands to where Hannibal had been only a second prior.

                             *                                          

A scent jolts Will awake. It descends on him almost all at once, though it has the sense of a slow-build about it. He's catapulted from unconsciousness into a world of pain and dimmed light, and that smell, that coppery odor, slightly familiar and yet not.

            He tugs against some pain at his cheek and receives a reprimand in response: "You must'nt jerk about, Will." Hannibal. Will knows before he even sees him. "Just relax, you're almost done."

            Will settles in the bed he's been deposited into while Hannibal stitches his sliced cheek. The pillows are feathered, he can tell by the give, and green wool blankets pool around Will's lap. He's stripped down to blue-plaid boxers. The bed smells slightly rank but it isn't the same scent that brought him out of the black. His green eyes move rigidly to the other side of the wood-paneled room and there is a man beneath a wall clock, hunched over in his own dark blood. He is heavyset and scruffy, white beard frizzed around a pink face. The blood dribbles from his temple where a black-and-white handled screwdriver is lodged into the soft flesh there. A dark yellow stain at the crotch of his khakis.

            Will's eyes move back to Hannibal.

            Hannibal finishes the stitches with blue thread; he snips it with a small pair of scissors. "I found him like that," Hannibal says. He looks at Will for a long moment, then his eyes crinkle at the corners, lips quirking mildly.

            Will smiles, and that hurts, then he laughs, and that burns like hell but he can't help it. He leans back on the wealth of pillows behind him and laughs boisterously. He thinks it's boisterous. Hannibal continues to watch him, quiet, observing. The sound of Will's laughter is a hollow huffing, like a collie who's owners have cut its vocal chords.

            When he simmers, holding a hand tenderly to the treated side of his face, he looks down at the shoulder that had been stabbed. It's threaded too, neat, like a gift. He can't see his cheek but he's sure Hannibal has done a similar job. He wants to ask if Hannibal is making Will into his own present. He wonders if Hannibal will unwrap him. He wonders if he will turn out ugly from scarring.

            "I might need some help sewing the entry wound," Hannibal says. He looks like he's wilting. The color is gone from his face, he's not sitting up straight on the stool that's been pulled over to the bedside. Will nods, almost eager. He reaches for the needle and thread, and tries to tell Hannibal thank you.

            All that comes out is more air and a strained sound beneath that.

            Will touches his throat lightly.

            Hannibal places his own hand over Will's, and smiles. It calms any panic that might have arisen. "You can't speak," Hannibal says, and it's half a question, half not.

            Will shakes his head.

            Hannibal nods as if he's fairly unsurprised as this. Will wishes he felt the same, though it only bothers him peripherally. He tries again, briefly, he tries to say, 'It's 11:13 AM, I'm somewhere in the woods with Hannibal, and my name is Will Graham.' It comes out as barely a racket.

            This seems to go unnoticed by Hannibal – he's taken off his sweater and his torso is a mess of yellow-green bruises and knicks from the rockface of the cliff. The bullet hole looks angry. Will stares at Hannibal like he's a wonder, like he's Superman. Hannibal hands him the supplies and a half-empty bottle of whiskey that had been sitting on the nightstand. Will douses the area with the brown liquid; Hannibal closes his eyes, and after a few long moments, he says, "I know your tone, Will. The way you speak. My inner thoughts, too, have changed, and they take on your intonations; that little drawl you acquire when you're embarrassed or confused. The sharp edge when you're feeling defensive. I can't hear you, but I can hear you."

            Will threads, nodding. He supposes that's all that presently matters.

            Hannibal says, "Yes, that is all that matters."

           

           

 

 


	2. The Princess Has Come of Age

Will is hesitant about a shower – something about more water rushing over him – but in the end he does it, because Hannibal has told him to. When he gets out, skin pink, curly dark hair clinging to his stubble, he wipes the foggy bathroom mirror with the heel of a hand. He stares back at himself, marred, bags under his eyes. Muscles tense beneath his skin. He's bruised and beaten. Jack or Molly would probably tell him he looks like hell. Will has never seen himself more handsome.

            He runs a hand back through his hair as the mirror threatens to re-fog. The dark hair is mildly agreeable to this – it smoothes backward, all save for one unruly curl that hangs and clings to the left temple. When the hair is down, Will can see something. Two somethings. Little nubs, emerging from either side of his head. Will squints, rubs the mirror again, then ventures up to touch one of them. Sturdy, soft, like velvet. Horns.

            He blinks, slowly shakes his head from side to side. Eyeing them at different angles. Just another hallucination, he supposes. But this brings no real worry. If this is a dream, it's a good dream.

            He leaves the bathroom after pulling on an oversized red sweater knicked from their host's closet. Fresh black boxers that are two sizes large on him. He holds up one side with a clutched fist and comes out into the main room where the bed and couches and fireplace are. Through the window he sees the swaying woods surround the cabin, and the grey sky above – it is dark but mid-afternoon. Hannibal showered before Will and is similarly dressed on the floor, though the clothes fit him better for his larger frame. The scent of old blood from their host still lingers but the man is no longer present in the room; a blood trail to the coat closet lets Will know Hannibal has moved him. It was unsightly anyway.

            Will heaves himself down onto the floor, relying only on his uninjured arm. The fire mutters, crackles. Will longs to make sound but doesn't try.

            Hannibal does it for him. "Jack is swarming the cliff area. Right now, he's wondering whether we're dead. Mostly he's delighting in the death of the Dragon."

            Will knows Jack is ever-drawn to the notion of justice. He wants to make sure Hannibal is dead, but he also knows Jack is afraid that if he _is_ dead, Will might have died with him.

            "You did die with me," Hannibal hums.

            The sound of that is so good. They're dead. Or, they were dead.

            "Only for a few minutes. I was merely resuscitated. You were the one who was reborn." The firelight casts deep shadows onto Hannibal's face. He has the look of the devil. When he raises his eyes to Will's, there is such deep affection in that gaze that Will feels like he will stumble into it and never emerge. "Truly the fabled lamb of old, aren't you?"

            Will smiles, flattered by the comparison, but lambs don't have horns.

            "Lambs don't have fangs either, nor the drive to gore their prey." Hannibal crosses his legs at the shins, and uses a hand to motion for Will. "You are an amalgam of survival instincts, of roar and resistance."

            Will nods and easily comes forward on hands and knees. He leans down until his head is in Hannibal's lap, face turned so that his injured cheek is unbothered. He lays his body down on the carpet and feels Hannibal's hand run through his hair, through curls that now start to dry. Will rubs his face in the fabric of Hannibal's clothes, and after a long while, after Hannibal must have thought Will was asleep, he stops petting. Will opens his eyes, nudges against the stilled hand, and Hannibal continues.

                                *                                     

They leave in the dead of night, inside the red Jeep of their cabin host. Hannibal will take the first shift driving, and though Will feels mildly useless while being allowed to lounge in the passenger seat, he does think this is Hannibal's way of pampering. They're both injured, in no condition for a fight, and toeing the line of finality by traveling, but Will leans the seat back and looks at Hannibal's profile in the full moonlight as if they're on their honeymoon.

            The Jeep has no roof and the wind blasts the hair back from their foreheads.

            The stars overhead, the moon – there's something rising in Will's throat, it threatens to burst from him. The impulse to howl.

            Hannibal's voice calls to him over the gust: "Jack thinks you're probably dead, Will. Or that's what he's telling himself. Because he knows if you're not dead, then we're together. He wants me dead. But he doesn't want to kill you. It's easier for him, in his mind, to push you into the afterlife than to push you into this new life."

            Will wonders if Jack will come after them.

            "Eventually," Hannibal says. "But we have time on our side, and his doubts. And our certainty." He looks over at Will briefly, one eyebrow cocked, a smile on his lips.

            They travel north. The road is desolate save for a few truckers and one or two cars. A van  _–_ white, nondescript _–_ drives south while they continue northward. Their two vehicles pass for just an instant, but Will senses something and he watches the van disappear down the long stretch of road behind them. Yes, a familiar scent. A psychopath inside, and there was blood on him. Will could not see his face but he felt the familiarity and by Hannibal's serene expression, he'd felt it too.

            They arrive in Massachusetts before dawn and Hannibal pulls up to a bank. He says he has a safety deposit box inside and tells Will to stay in the Jeep. When he returns, he hands Will a manila envelope – inside are two passports with their pictures. Hannibal's passport declares him as: Chester Rip. Will's passport declares him as: Cody Cat.

            Will looks at Hannibal with the biggest grin he can muster without ripping his stitches.

            Logan Airport security is so lax that it's laughable, if Will could laugh. He and Hannibal bypass sleepy TSA agents and endure minimal pat-downs. At the gate, one of them says to Hannibal: "Enjoy your flight, Mr. Rip." Will is nearly in tears with joy. The flight will be long, but Will doesn't mind, he's excited to be out of the States again. He feels worldly already, aided by Hannibal's refined disposition beside him. Will has the window seat; across the aisle, there is a couple who seem to be married. They have that just-tied-the-knot glow about them, and Will can recognize it so easily because that glow also radiates from him and Hannibal.

*

Will has arrived for dinner. He stands in a black button-down shirt rolled to the elbows, black slacks, hair slicked back – just one curl out of place. Small horns only barely visible from the thicket of his dark hair. Hannibal has made mention of them in the past few hours, looking at them like any mortal man would have looked at Aphrodite. Raw hunger. Worship. He's good at tamping it down for the sake of work. For promises gone yet unfulfilled.

            Will knocks on the door, rocking forward on the balls of black Oxfords. In the crook of one arm, he has a bottle of Grange Shiraz Magnum. He cradles it gently as the apartment door opens, and Bedelia stands in the archway, ever-placid countenance betrayed by horror. Will can't say hello but he smiles broadly and steps a foot into the doorway before she can shut it.

            She turns to run, bathrobe trailing behind as she flees the living room, into the hall. Blonde hair falling in a tumble from its once stately bun atop her head. Will moseys in, only sparing her a fleeting glance. When she reaches the bedroom, she barely has time to scream. Will continues to look around, considering the fine work in the floor moldings. The air smells of perfume, he can't place what kind.

            "Annick Goutal Eau d’Hadrien," Hannibal says. He walks in from the back rooms, carrying Bedelia limp in his arms. A soft red mark sits at her neck where he injected her. Hannibal sets her on the plush couch and leans over her body, nosing just under her chin. "She's covered in it. It's overpowering."

            He gently moves her legs over against the bright-yellow cushions, sits beside them, and motions for Will to join him. Will deposits the wine on the coffee table and seats himself nearer Bedelia's head. He looks down into her face and remembers their last few conversations.

            _"But do you... ache for him?"_

            Will is only now coming to understand what an ache really is and how it can be elevated. Like a sore or strained muscle, there is a release when its massaged. And a massage feels best when there is a pained muscle. The pain comes first. Then the pressure. And all that ensues is bliss.

            He dips his head low and breathes in the scent near her collar bone. Closes his eyes. Hannibal's weight shifts and he leans back into her. They take it in: behind her ears where the scent is softest, her wrists where it is saturated. Hannibal passes her left hand to Will. Will passes back her right. They stay there for a long while and drench their olfactory glands until Will's stomach growls.

 

           

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the support, guys! I'm happy to continue. Up next, dinner at Bedelia's.


	3. Aphrodite's Lover

When it is certain that Bedelia can no longer run, Will goes around the apartment to open the windows. He throws them wide, and for a moment is lost to the sight of Athens at night. Lit up as if the stars had fallen to the ground. Small shops stand open along the cobblestone roads below and people crowd them, surging and languid at once in their treks between the buildings. Miles away, the Parthenon stands bright against the night and dark of the hillside. He feels the arcane of the land even five stories up. Mediterranean air rushes over the city on a breeze, in through the windows, wrapping Will in a salted embrace. He inhales until his lungs ache.

            His only regret is that after their engagement with Bedelia, it would be unwise to live here. He doesn't think he's seen a prettier place. The whole of Athens could be the courtyard of his palace.

            "Lavish," Hannibal says, lingering behind Will at a distance. Will looks back over his shoulder into the dining room and finds the long oaken table stripped bare. "But I like it when you dream big, Will. If you would, please set the table. Dinner is almost ready."           

*

Bedelia's throat flashes with quickened breathing. Her eyes are unfocused, a result of all the morphine coursing through her. Still, Will considers that she looks beautiful. Hannibal has an eye for design and the dress he's chosen for her is stunning with a plunging neckline that presses into the flesh of her breast. There's a fork in her hand, beneath the table. Will feels a sort of glee at her gumption.

            Hannibal can see it too, and ignores it out of politeness. He seats himself at the head of the table opposite Bedelia while Will sits between them, squarely in front of the Kalua leg, wrapped like a gift in banana leaves and sprigged with blackberries.  Pomegranates broken in half at the base, shining like rubies in the candlelight. Ice shards below that. The roast is for him and Hannibal. Sitting before Bedelia is a plate of oysters. Hannibal has said it's to preserve her taste.

            For a moment, Will feels just a pinprick of jealousy. He's quite sure that due to years of his own burnt-to-black cooking and the fact that Molly was nothing but a hurricane in the kitchen, he doesn't taste half as good as a happy meal.

            Hannibal picks up his knife and fork, eyeing Will wryly.

            "I'm sure you're delicious, Will. Marinating is often for tougher cuts, or hearty meat. Like Beluga caviar, you were ready to eat right out of the womb."

            Will tries to hide his beaming smile, but it shines brilliantly. He stares at Hannibal with bright green eyes and Hannibal doesn't break eye-contact as he cuts into his serving of Bedelia's leg, takes the forkful into his mouth and savors.

            Bedelia's voice is breathy, more so than usual. She says, "Am I to your liking?"

            Will takes a bite while Hannibal responds: "Wonderful. I've been waiting for this for a long time, Bedelia."

            It _is_ wonderful: a pure, clean flavor, and Will is aware that the taste doesn't come from a rub or spice mixture added after the fact. This flavor was kept inside Bedelia for years, percolating, waiting to be devoured. Will finds this incredible and hurriedly takes more into his mouth.

            "Did you always intend," Bedelia whispers, "for me to be the reception feast?"

            Will chews slowly, glancing over at Hannibal. He, too, would like an answer to this.

            Hannibal doesn't regard Will at all, denying him the self-satisfaction that's already creeping across his face. He says to Bedelia, "Yes."

            There's a hush over the dining table; Hannibal eats throughout it. Will cracks his neck, releasing some of the pressure he feels building up along his spine. A tingling sensation fizzes at his scalp, at the base of his horns. He isn't sure how to satiate this feeling, but he thinks he might like it if Hannibal pet him again. This must be it, a longing for closeness. Hannibal is busy eating and though Will knows he should probably be patient, he glances over at Hannibal curiously.

            Hannibal doesn't look over, simply smiles into his plate.

            Will sighs, laughing hollow chuffs. He grabs his glass and drinks deep from the red-purple wine.

            "I feel like," Bedelia slurs, her eyes crossing, "I'm interrupting something."

            "Not at all." Hannibal finishes and dabs at his mouth with a silk napkin. "You are an honored guest. I have to say, Bedelia, I'm not sure I've ever enjoyed a meal quite this much."

            "I expect not," she says. One eye is staring at Hannibal, the other is rolling upward. "My mother used to tell me that I was one of a kind. She said that, even in earshot of my sisters. I would be something special someday. She said... that. And," Bedelia shudders, "I believed her."

            Hannibal stares at Bedelia, eyes black in the candlelight shadows. "She was right."

*             

Beyond the French doors, fixtured with golden handles, is a balcony shaped half-oval. The banister smells faintly of primer, as if it were painted recently. Columns of the banister match that of the Parthenon which stands illuminated against the black sky. Will leans forward, clutching at the railing. He smells smoky like the meal just shared, and beneath that, Bedelia's citrus-based perfume, and, yes, even under that, he can still smell the Atlantic on him, as if that will never truly be washed away.

            "What would you like?"

            Will keeps his gaze fixed on the ruins, but smiles when he feels Hannibal's strong hands rest on his shoulders. They hold him softly, without restraint.

            "You are the ruler of this world, Will," he says. His mouth near Will's ear, forehead leaning against the side of his head. Breathes in the scents mingling on the younger man's skin. "A god among men. We are in a city where gods once tread the ground, and I would say you are their likeness come again."

            A smirk tugs at Will's lips. If he remembers correctly, gods caused unrest amongst mortal citizens; petty tiffs of the gods and goddesses raged like storms and all men could do was watch and cower and fall victim.

            Hannibal chuckles, pressing his nose to the sensitive skin beneath Will's ear. "I never said men would hail your return, young god."

            Will turns completely in Hannibal's grasp until they come to face each other. He tilts his head. The warm breeze blows his curls, shaking them from their place.

            Hannibal swallows. So carefully does he bring thick hands up Will's shoulders, neck, until they cup his face with a tenderness one would employ to hold a soap bubble. In Hannibal's eyes, there is murky eternity. "I will hail you for a thousand years. Long after you and I have gone from this plane, the world will still bear the scorch-marks of your fire."

            Will knows. Hannibal lit the match.

            "You will reach a degree so high, it will kill us all."

            Will feels dizzied and fevered, as if Hannibal's mere words are setting the cosmos to ignition right in Will's body. He leans into the hand on the unmarred side of his face, feels it rough against his stubble. Sound rises from his throat, useless garbled cries that beg. Hannibal moves his hand up, past the temple and into the wild black hair. At the base of the left horn, which is only half the length of Hannibal's little finger. He scratches there lightly, testing. Will's upper lip trembles and pulls back, mouth fixed in a soundless growl.

            Hannibal is expressionless; he squeezes and feels Will jerk upward into the palm of his hand. Will's body rigid. Eyes rolling, half-lidded and near watering.

            He can't say it but he can say it and what he's saying is _please don't stop_.

            Hannibal delights in much that is considered sadism, Will is aware, and this extends to frequently denying Will. But he either takes pity or is so entranced by Will that sadist leanings are being pushed aside. Hannibal takes full grasp of the horn, wrapping long fingers around it, and increases pressure until Will's eyes go back in his head, lower whites of his eyeballs streaked red with veins – he is panting and grinning without notion of shame. Hannibal watches wordlessly, soaking in Will like sunrays. Moonrays. Starlight. Will sees stars.

            When Hannibal releases him, it is methodical and considerate. He retraces the trail he made to Will's scalp: back down his hair, past the temple, cheek, neck and then shoulder. He holds Will still until he comes back to himself, until he looks at Hannibal and recognition warms him into being.

            Though he knows it's futile to try speaking, Will opens his mouth anyway. As nothing but the familiar strained noise comes forth, he looks past Hannibal into the dining room to see Bedelia has fallen from her chair. Or thrown herself. She is half-crawling, half-worming her way across the carpet.

            Will smiles.

            Hannibal looks back, releasing Will, and his expression mirrors the man he's with. Hannibal strides back into the apartment, idly picking up a silver fork from the table on his way to her.

            "Bedelia, you truly are one of a kind," he says, standing over her. She responds with something inane that no one but she understands. Hannibal lowers himself. "Will and I thank you graciously for all you've done."

           

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cracks knuckles* Let's get going! Onward, to S4!


	4. Hunger Pains

There are habits that, no matter the circumstance, cannot be broken. Hannibal's morning routine, for instance, though now Will is seeing the full stretch of it, whereas once he could only imagine. Will is only barely aware, through thinnest layers of unconsciousness, of Hannibal's departure from their bed. He untangles himself from the fabric-softened duvet and Will alike. Showers, returns to the bedroom scrubbed and pink and shaved. He tries to rouse Will from bed, and though Will is now awake, he refuses to move. Hannibal relents and goes downstairs to make coffee.

            The scent tugs at Will, but he firmly keeps his eyes shut.

            Then the smell of breakfast: a batter of apricot scones, muffins, or _medialuna_ from last night now being put to use in the oven. Rosemary sprigs frying in oil, mixing with garlic and potatoes. Sage sausage searing in a pan, the crackle of hardened casing reaching Will all the way upstairs. There's nothing left to do but resign. He slinks from bed, hair wild, eyes bleary, guiding himself with the railing as he reaches the first floor of their chalet.

            When he arrives in the wide, sun-drenched kitchen, he's greeted by a chiding look that only barely masks the deepest of endearment.

            "I see you couldn't be bothered to shower or put on much past your underpants," Hannibal says, handing Will a mug of café chico. The warm scent of chicory rises from the black liquid and already Will is becoming more alert. "Again."

            Will gives a prideful smirk as he walks by.

            Hannibal rolls his eyes, returning to his stove range and the pans sizzling before him. He pretends not to notice Will rounding the island, bare feet tapping against the linoleum. He stands at Hannibal's side, peering into the pans.

            "Rude, Will," Hannibal says mildly.

            Will's smirk widens behind the mug. He uses a free hand to dip down into the red sauce in one pan and bring it to his mouth. Hannibal watches him, expression unamused. He idly reaches up into Will's hair and gives a sharp tug to one of his horns. A shuddering gasp, pause, and a long moan follow, forced from Will on contact. When Will's vision returns, he rubs his forehead against Hannibal's shoulder in gratitude and goes to the dining table to avoid being a further nuisance.

*

It's been a week in Mar del Plata, and Will has loved every second. He was hesitant at first, as with all new things. But Hannibal eased him, assured him that if he had fallen in love with the beauty of Athens, then he would soon come under the spell of this seaside city in the Buenos Aires Province of Argentina. The culture may not be as world-renowned as the Grecian, he'd remarked, but its roots ran just as deep. As with everything, Hannibal was right. Will is sapped.

            Their chalet is nestled in the residential district, far enough from the inner-city that nightlife leaves them undisturbed. Close enough to the water to see lights from fishing boats at night. Will knows these are secondary characteristics.

            Hannibal has chosen this place for the roomy basement. Nothing more.

            After breakfast, Will is energized enough to do the dishes. He is elbow-high in bubbles and the window before him looks out onto the street, giving full view of other houses that look just like theirs. Hannibal sits at the dining table with his tablet.

            "The Elopement of the Murder Husbands," Hannibal reads aloud. Will smiles and he hears a rock dove's song nearby, on one of the power lines. A soap bubble from the sink floats upward, nose-height. "Forged through blood and sinew, ex-profiler Will Graham and current-cannibal Hannibal Lecter have embraced their bond. After the joint escape from police custody and tag-team murder of the Tooth Fairy, both men dramatically threw themselves off a cliff to convince the world that their reign of terror was over. While the FBI would like to believe it to be true, there have been reported sightings of the two from various places throughout the world, including Florida, Massachusetts, and even as far as Athens, Greece. Chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, Jack Crawford, has this to say about the sightings: 'Everyone wants to be responsible for seeing and catching Bigfoot. The truth is, Bigfoot isn't out there and neither are Will and Hannibal.'"

            Will has dropped the plate he'd been washing into the tepid water, and he spins around on his heels, expression of pure felicity. He claps soapy hands together, spraying suds out to either side of him.

            Hannibal says, "I'm not sure how I feel about the 'current-cannibal' bit."

            Will thinks it's wonderful. He's wanted to kill Freddie Lounds for longer than he can remember, and certainly before his rebirth, but now all he can think of is to kiss her. He imagines the resulting horror on her face would be deliciously amusing. He thinks this is her best piece yet, and he's glad she's alive.

            "I agree that the world is certainly more entertaining with Ms. Lounds in it." Hannibal closes the tablet and watches Will: still in his boxers, horns catching the light from mid-morning sun, suds clinging to his chin. "It's hard to say if Jack really thinks we're now only mythology or if he's simply using Ms. Lounds' website to broadcast that idea to us."

            If that's the case, Jack is running out of tricks. Either way, he's doing this because he doesn't know where they are. _If_ they are, even. Jack is covering all his bases, but what he isn't able to disguise is that he's at a loss.

            The truth is, when they used this set-up to trap killers before, they had bait. Either Will or Hannibal, dangled out on a line, radiant lures for psychopaths of all walks of life. Now Jack has no bait. His prize lures have cut themselves free and spend all their days captivated by each other's glow.

            "The next best thing he has is Alana. Maybe she's told him that I've promised to kill her," Hannibal says, smirking. "I didn't tell her when, however."

            Will nods. It's better that way; he can imagine Alana's unease. Daily wondering if Hannibal and Will are around this corner, or that. If they have already grabbed the precious little boy Alana carried in her womb. If they have Margot by the throat.

            Hannibal's teeth shine. "It could be merely days."

            Or years.

            "The when has never been important to me. Only the inevitability."

            Will understands inevitability like no one else.

*

There's a learning curve involved with introduction to the Southern hemisphere. They left the States just weeks ago in June, and Will's body has been jolted by the winter it finds itself in. He's a hermit by nature anyway, and doesn't usually find much appeal in going out into the city.

            Except.

            Except now, he's antsy. He spends his days in the chalet, recuperating with Hannibal. In the mornings, when it finally comes upon him that he must shower, he examines his wounds. The stitches have come out, and his cheek will scar. There's little to be done about it, besides the grape seed oil he rubs on daily in some new-found vanity. The shoulder has healed well but he knows there's mass amounts of scar tissue beneath the surface – it's raised, puckered and pale. He does push-ups, stretches, rotates the arm in its socket. But it needs more than that. He needs more than that.

            It's nearing 6 PM when Will waltzes down the few carpeted steps to the living area. The furniture is coffee-brown, plush, one of the reading lights on low for Hannibal who sits beneath it in a recliner. When Will comes to stand before him, bright-eyed, perked, Hannibal peers over the top of his book.

            "Will," he says, tone verging on amused.

            Will raises one eyebrow and cocks his head.

            "Are you attempting to ask me for something?"

            Will squints his eyes – accusatory. Hannibal knows exactly what he wants. Hannibal wants it too.

            "Yes," Hannibal sighs, relenting. "That doesn't mean we shouldn't discuss it first. How's your arm?"

            He swings both arms forward, backward, like a child readying his body for a leap. Stretches one arm overhead, then the other. Cracks his neck.

            "And your cheek? If your cheek is still tender–" He's interrupted by a loud, warbled groan. Hannibal ignores this and continues: "Someone might see it as a weakness and try to exploit it. Is it healed, Will?"

            Will is healed. He knows Hannibal is too. He sees the Dragon's mark on Hannibal's back sometimes, if Will's eyes are open before the older man's shower. It will always be there, a reminder of that immortal night, but they have recovered. And yet, even if Will hadn't yet been completely renewed, it hardly mattered. The pangs in his shoulder, in his face, those came and went. There is another pang, deeper than that – the throbbing that has been placed inside him like a second heart. Hannibal cannot mean to plant it in Will and not attend to its beating.

            Hannibal watches Will carefully. He sets the book on the coffee table, uncrosses his legs, and says, like a test: "Show me where it hurts."

            Will comes down onto his knees, looking cautiously into the man's eyes. He takes Hannibal's hand in his, lifts his own shirt with the other, and places the flat of Hannibal's hand to his bare stomach.

           

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much, guys! If you want more, I'll of course deliver.


	5. Ares' Lover

Will feels almost too giddy. He wants to hide some of it as he glides into the walk-in closet in their bedroom, with Hannibal trailing languidly behind him. But there's no real point in hiding anything. Hannibal can feel Will's racing heartbeat as if it were in his own chest. This knowledge, in another life, might have terrified him beyond all reason. Now, it is comfort and home and love.

            Hannibal has gifted him an entirely new wardrobe in the wake of Will's losses: clothes, shoes, terribly-scented aftershave. All replaced, handpicked by Hannibal to suit Will and his horns and his appetite.

            He is dressed in red, dark as heart's blood. He sees himself in Hannibal's eyes and is enamored. He comes in close, fists the soft leather of Hannibal's jacket and thinks he's never been so thrilled to be himself. His own skin is like wearing designer clothes. His own eyes are emeralds, his teeth are diamonds. He is priceless.

            "Yes," Hannibal says, nodding, "Yes, Will. Yes."

*

The Irigoyen district blooms florescent. Cars stick to the main road a few blocks down, and further in everyone is on foot despite the chill. Hannibal parked the Renault one street back, beneath the shade of small trees. When they arrive inside Éxodo, the nightclub is shockingly loud, whereas it had seemed muted on the street. Will feels his senses flooding, hasn't been in a club like this in ages. His eyes widen to adjust to the dark, the strobe. The bass resounds in his stomach.

            Young bodies jammed together on the dance floor to the left of the bar. Will takes it all in, idly following behind Hannibal. When Hannibal turns back around to him, Will knows he has no chance of hearing a word the other man says. He stares at his lips instead.

            Hannibal mouths: 'Show me.'

            Will smiles, raises both his eyebrows. He knows he looks innocent, even with his horns, and he knows what that does to Hannibal. He turns on a heel, hands stuffed into his pockets, and heads onto the dance floor. He was cold only minutes ago – complaining in a way only Hannibal could hear on their jaunt from the Renault to the building – and now he's burning up with the heat of percolating bodies surrounding him. He can feel their skin, the fabric of their clothes, smell the tangle of perfume and sweat.

            Music thuds in his ears, American rap slowed and stuttered, bass dropping harder every few minutes. The girl dancing in front of him whirls around and mid-twirl stops to stare at Will. Her eyes, unfocused from alcohol, attempt to take all of him in, and she gives a lopsided smile.

            Her mouth moves. 'Dance with me,' she says. American, maybe from the west coast. Her blonde hair reminds him of Molly.

            Will nods once, smiling at her, and follows her lead. She's plastered and her movements are erratic, she's singing along to the music but her lips are out of synch. Will stares openly at her mouth and doesn't know if he's hallucinating or she's far gone. He looks back towards the wall where he had earlier been and finds Hannibal leaning back against it, a glass of whiskey in hand. He stares at Will and in the strobe light his eyes go from green to blue to red, red, red.

            When Will turns back to the girl, she's saying something he can't hear. Will mouths to her: 'What?'

            She repeats and he can hear the strain of her voice barely: 'I said, is that your man?'

            Will hums in his throat. 'Want to borrow him?'

            There's a flash of presence in her eyes, light. It might be the strobbing. Even in the atrocious excuse for lighting, he can tell she isn't comely. It's probably why she was dancing alone. The prospect of having Hannibal works in her mind. She's trying to visualize it.

            Will eggs her on. 'You won't regret it.'

            'What about you?' She's already there. He's got her.

            'You want me too?' When she grins, Will tilts his head back. 'Greedy.'

*

When they get her onto the street, Will wonders how she didn't freeze on her way into Éxodo. Under the lamplight, she is in a pink silk skirt and a translucent green top. She must have a jacket somewhere inside, but Will is too impatient to ask her about it.

            She walks between him and Hannibal and says, in an accent that is definitely southern Californian, "I'm Viv. This is so weird. I don't normally do this, but..."

            Will eyes her. He mouths: 'I know. Don't worry, we'll take care of you.'

            Hannibal looks down at her, smiling. "Indeed," he says. "It's nice to meet you, Viv. I'm Chester, and this is Cody."

            Will bites his tongue to keep a straight face.

            When they reach the secluded street their car is parked on, Hannibal enters the driver's side. Like a valet, Will holds the backseat door open for Viv and then slides in next to her, onto the plastic-covered seats. He locks the doors and Hannibal begins to drive.

            Viv looks like she could fall asleep at any moment, and yet her fingers twitch with nervous excitement. "You guys tourists too?" She leans back onto the plastic and doesn't look at all bothered by it sticking to her hair and skin.

            Will shrugs. 'Nah.'

            They pass beneath lights that flow in through the tinted windows and cover Viv's body. Green, yellow. Gooseflesh tops her thighs, gives them the craggy look of a mountain range. Her chest heaves slowly, and Will's eyes narrow on the hollow at her throat, just above the collar bone. There. He reaches into his back pocket and grips the handle of the switch blade.

            Viv looks at him then, and her eyes once again focusing. There's light fighting the shadows in her, shadows cast by vodka, maybe gin. "You... are you mute, Cody?" she asks.

            Will opens his mouth, and emits a sound that is low, guttural: monster sleep-talk.

            She's stuck in a forever-inhale when the blade plunges deep into the hollow of her throat. Her eyes bug, and they're blue, so blue, Will hadn't noticed before. Molly's eyes were blue too. When her warm blood rushes over Will's fingers, he smiles and thinks this is what killing Molly would be like. It would have the same timbre, and tone, and mouthfeel – the sticky rawness after sucking on hard candy too long. The sound of her attempting to exhale, and finally slumping over.

            Will leaves the blade in her and easily hops up between the two front seats, into the passenger's side.

            "Will, that's dangerous. Please put your seatbelt on."

            Hannibal receives a ragged groan, but Will does as he's told. Hannibal reaches over, lightly drums his fingertips against one of Will's horns, and before Will becomes too needy from it, replaces his hand to the steering wheel.

            Will grins over, wearing pride like a new tuxedo.                                     

*

The basement has been arranged reasonably well. There's a table saw and deep-basin sinks, a professional grade walk-in freezer, a floor drain. It's not the same as back in Baltimore, Hannibal laments, but this one will serve greater purposes. He looks at Will when he says this.

            They are going to cut Viv cleanly and discern which of her organs look healthiest. She lays on the metal table in the middle of the room, her face already sinking in. Her clothes lay neatly folded on the back of a wooden chair nearby. Hannibal is nothing if not a gentleman.

            Beside the table, there is a small stand-up tray covered in medical tools. Hannibal approaches it as he approaches the kitchen. Confidence. Innovation.

            Will stands on the other side, watching intently.

            "Farm-to-table," Hannibal says, smiling. Will no longer needs to hide his hollow laughter, and doesn't. He and Hannibal eye each other for a long moment before Hannibal picks up a scalpel, sets it down, picks up a bone saw. "I'm going to show you how to do this from start to finish. You're going to learn to cook, Will."

            Will frowns at the mention of cooking.

            "This isn't a discussion," Hannibal warns, though he is all levity.

            Will sighs, nods. He secretly hopes that after he burns a few kidneys, Hannibal will let him alone on the subject. Though it is no real secret for as soon as Will thinks it, he's given a look so severe it makes his horns tingle. Returning to Viv, Hannibal starts the saw and leans into her and, on this, Will does not have to feign any interest. He is captivated and in awe. Awe in the elder terminology, in the way the Greeks worshipped terrible gods, in the way they saw the blood of thousands soaking into sand and revered Ares' slaughter and his wrath.

           

           

           

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, guys, you don't know how much your kind words mean.


	6. In the Dawn of Eternity

Will has found a fun game to play:

            The morning after they catch and carve Viv, Hannibal allows Will the day to loaf around and hide in covers and pretend he won't be made to cook in the evening. But whenever Hannibal walks by, Will eyes him and thinks wouldn't it be nice if they could just toss her pancreas into the microwave and pop it onto a hotdog bun. Hannibal's poker-face crumbles under the weight of disgust and Will tumbles around in bed, crying with soundless laughter.

            He's able to repeat this a few times throughout the day in various rooms of the house: the sitting room, the kitchen, the stairwell. It's only when Will conjures up the image of dipping Viv's frontal lobe in ketchup does Hannibal have enough and he picks Will up and sets him out on the back porch, closing the door behind him.

            The racket emitting from Will's broken voice box is not unlike a cat in heat. He bangs on the glass door and yowls for only a few minutes until Hannibal can't stand that either. He brings Will back inside, and they both wear similar looks – cocktails of exasperation and good humor.

*          

Viv has quite a few useful parts. Her organs are pink with youth and little damage. Will makes the observation that if they eat her liver, they might both come away drunk. Hannibal ignores the joke and places her kidneys on the bamboo cutting board before them.

            Will has been protesting this moment all day, but when it comes, he finds it is not nearly as tedious as he had imagined. Sunset hues of orange and pink through the open window wash their white kitchen in color. He and Hannibal stand side-by-side at the island, both in comfortable sweaters and matching aprons wrapped around their waists. Hannibal's sleeves are rolled up to his elbows; Will stares at his thick wrists coated in soft hair. He watches as sinew and gristle are shorn from the organs, leaving only beautiful meat which reflects the lighting overhead.

            "Some would say that the key to a good kidney pie is the meat," Hannibal says, taking a large knife to cube the kidneys. "I disagree. Certainly it is important, but I think the key is good pastry. Flaky, light. It readies your mouth for the filling. So naturally, Will, you are to make our pastry."

            Will gives a look he hopes is wholly unenthused.

            Hannibal points him over to the counter behind. "I've set out all you need and have given you a list of instructions." He watches Will trudge over. "You are a capable boy, Will; I have complete faith in you."

            There are a host of sardonic retorts Will would like to say to that and it's times like these – when Hannibal is being hopelessly antagonistic for the sheer pleasure – that he misses his voice. Silence overtakes the kitchen. Will looks at the little white card of instructions, and sets to work with his butter and flour.

            Hannibal's chopping, sautéing, the sizzle of his pans. Will's fumbling with the bowls and his awkward kneading. It's nice, Will has to admit. He knows Hannibal is now aware of this sentiment that's wandered through his mind, but he says nothing aloud to confirm it or comment. Merely lets Will marinade in it. There is also the unspoken prospect that this is what they get to look forward to now. Will's mind jellies at the thought. This. This.

            He mashes the rolling pin into the lump of dough. He's never had to roll anything before, always opting instead for puff pastry from the frozen foods section. He's sure Hannibal would put him back outside if he suggested such a thing.

            "You are correct," Hannibal says. He stands directly behind Will, having somehow gone unnoticed. Will rolls his eyes while he struggles with the dough. Hannibal leans forward slightly, fingertips resting on Will's elbows. He moves them down the wrists, until he grips the pin handles over Will's hands. "You seem like you're trying to squeeze the life from the dough. Not fully across, but from the middle. We start in the middle, then roll out to the sides. We want a full circle."

            Will nods, listless. He settles his back against Hannibal's chest and watches as his hands move not of their own accord. The motion is soft. Slow, ever outward. Rippling like waves beneath the fishing boats at the marina. He glances up to find Hannibal staring not at the dough but at him.

            He rests his head back, green eyes meeting Hannibal's gaze.

            Hannibal lowers and pushes his nose behind Will's ear, turning his head the other way. Lower still, moving and breathing Will in. No longer the cheap ship-on-the-bottle aftershave Hannibal always called him on. A fragrance called Noir de Noir; Will is sodden with the scent of black rose and truffle. It is deep, earthy, dark. Tree moss in a green wood. Hannibal has said it suits him.

            The rolling pin and Will's own hands are gripped tighter in Hannibal's hold. Still the in-and-out, pushing the dough into a larger circle. Will nearly forgets it's there. Hannibal's face is buried in his warm hair and Will presses back, searching for him, wanting the planes of their bodies to fuse. Blessed oneness.

            Hannibal's hands release all at once and so gently does he glide his fingertips up Will's wrists, elbows, and retracts himself. He says only, "Good," and pats Will's head and walks back to the stove range.

*

Nighttime when the meal is finished, the earlier flares of orange and purple in the sky have turned blue, black. Hannibal has placed tea-light candles on the dining table. He's plated their kidney pies with greenery, sprigs of thyme and rosemary, drizzle of red wine reduction. Will is mildly miffed upon realizing he's done close to nothing in comparison.

            "You've done much," Hannibal says, sitting across from Will in the seat he usually takes. "Not the least of which being humoring me in my endeavors to teach you cookery."

            In the end, Will did not mind it much. He doubts he will ever make pastry from scratch again unless prompted by Hannibal, but he found none of it to be particularly disagreeable.

            Hannibal dips his fork into the meat of the pie. "You practically resisted me all day on the subject."

            Will likes to push and feel Hannibal's unyielding strength. And he knows Hannibal knows this.

            Hannibal takes a bite and smiles. Candlelight flickers under his eyes. "You did a good job, Will."

            It is a good job – Will takes an experimental bite and finds himself captivated by the rich flavor. He sinks his teeth into forkful after forkful. It's mid-chew that he smiles, for the knowledge that Viv really did get to share them after all. Or rather, they're sharing her.

            "Syntax," Hannibal says, shrugging.

            The meal is accompanied by a Chateau Petrus, the same full-bodied wine Hannibal used in his making of the sauce. On the plate, it is thick, syrupy. In the glass, smooth and heady, and Will's buzzed after just two glasses. He scratches one of his horns distractedly, and when it feels too good, he struggles to replace his hand in his lap. Hannibal watches him with an overly-amused expression he attempts to hide behind wine.

            He drains his glass. Staring at the dregs, he says, "Will, I feel I must express how... overjoyed I am. I had not, at this age, expected to be with someone like myself."

            Will purses his lips to hold in a giggle. He makes note that Hannibal is speaking of himself as if he's a geriatric.

            "I'm not a young man," Hannibal tells him pointedly. When Will waves away the statement, Hannibal continues: "I would even say I'm eager to establish a semblance of normalcy to this life."

            Will tilts his head.

            "That is to say, I'm going to re-start my psychiatry practice here, in town. It would be best for our profile if we don't cloister ourselves inside constantly like hermits. Keeping up appearances and such." He studies Will's expression, the way it changes from confusion, to realization, to distress. "What is it?"

            It's an awful idea – Will doesn't want to be locked up in the house while Hannibal is out working all day. He may well be mute but he isn't a pet. He imagines how his old pack in Wolf Trap must have felt whenever Will went out into the field, or when he was tossed in Chilton's iron keep. He imagines waiting by the door for Hannibal daily. The thought is–

            "Will. Will," Hannibal says, and he looks on the verge of intense laughter. "I did say _our_ profiles. Locking _our_ selves away. You're coming too."

            There's a rosy tint to Will's cheeks as he fiddles with his fork and knife. But what can he possibly do?

            Hannibal says, "Well, I do have an opening for a receptionist."

           

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone for their support! And also, some information on the length situation: I'm pretty sure this fic will have three parts, and obviously we're in part one now. Part one and two should be about 10 chaps each, and part three might be a bit shorter... depends. Anyway, do enjoy!


	7. The Devil's Mark

Wine tugs them to bed earlier than usual. It's cool in the master bedroom; the sheets and duvet hold chill easily in their starched fabrics. Under, Hannibal and Will are stripped down to boxers. Will on the left side. Hannibal on the right.

            Pre-sleep, they are separate. Undoubtedly, Hannibal wakes every morning interlaced with Will who has in the course of unconsciousness found his way to Hannibal's side. He never bothers to ask how this comes about and Will is sure that if he asked, or moved forward while still awake, Hannibal would receive him generously. But Will keeps to his side, for now, the space between them surely cold for the lack of body heat there. There is only the barest of blue light coming through the wide window over Hannibal's shoulder, and with the light, Will can make out Hannibal's outline. Turned toward him, silent and open-eyed.

            The longing coming from Hannibal's side is almost tangible. Will senses it like sonar. Still, Hannibal is perfectly cordial. He is a wonder.

            Slowly, Will shifts forward. He comes into no-man's land in the middle of the bed and straightens his body. Places his head against Hannibal's chest, feels the broadness, the down of curly hair. Snakes his hand between Hannibal's side and arm, pulling them close.

            There's a stutter in Hannibal's breathing. He recovers quickly and places his arm around Will. The softest of touches along the younger man's spine. Will closes his eyes. Hannibal is so careful. He touches Will as if he were naught but sea foam.

            Hannibal whispers, "That's what I'm afraid of."

*

It takes nearly two weeks but it feels as if it has come upon Will all at once. The waiting room is quiet, empty at present. It is not so unlike the waiting room back in Baltimore, which is now probably covered in sheets and boarded up. Will imagines that Jack will build a replica of the office for his Evil Minds Museum.

            Will sits behind a mahogany desk in a finely pressed white collared shirt, maroon wool vest over that, and grey slacks. He let Hannibal pick his clothes. Will is unsure of the posture, the form, of a receptionist and most certainly that of a male receptionist. The widely-known stereotypes of a high-skirted cocktease don't readily apply to Will. He isn't quite sure that Hannibal agrees, however.

            The practice of Dr. Rip is small, burgeoning. There are four appointments today, the second-to-last of which is currently in the next room with Hannibal. Beyond the sturdy oak door, Juileta Ramos speaks to Hannibal about whatever ails her. It hadn't dawned on Will until today when the first client arrived that the vast majority, if not the entirety, of them would be Spanish-speaking. As he watched Hannibal greet the client easily in their own native tongue, and the timid yet happy smile of the patient, Will suddenly felt in over his head.

            He spent his first hour panicking, dreading the arrival of the next patient with whom he would have to crudely converse. He idled. Played with the pens on the desk, used the computer for solitaire. He opened the drawers, looking for paper to draw clocks on.

            In the drawer closest to him was a Spanish-English dictionary with a post-it note that read:

Will,

Do make an attempt.

Hannibal

            He devours the dictionary, perusing like it holds the key to life somewhere in between loose definitions and translations. It is 3: 57 PM. He practices under his breath for when Mrs. Ramos comes out of the door. _Te gustaría reservar su próxima cita?_ She won't hear whatever atrocious accent he might be capable of, but he will enunciate with his lips. She will see, and more importantly Hannibal will see, that he has made an attempt.

            In a few minutes, the door opens, Hannibal holding it open for his client like any proper gentleman. Julieta shuffles out, eyes ringed red. Will can feel the impatience radiating off Hannibal – he hates when clients cry.

            Julieta greets Will and Will moves his mouth: ' _Te gustaría reservar su próxima cita?_ '

            It's almost enough to make her smile; the small mole at the corner of her mouth twitches. She makes an appointment for next week on the same day, at the same time. When Will has entered it into the system, Julieta shakes Hannibal's hand and quietly leaves the waiting room.

            Almost as soon as the door is shut, Hannibal strides over to the desk and gives Will a long look: up and down. His eyes settle on the dictionary in Will's lap. "Capable boy," he says.

            Will feels warm, like he's soaking in the praise. It pools in his stomach.

            "I don't know how I will be able to concentrate on my patients, knowing you're just a room away. You are far more interesting than hearing about a thirty-something woman's orgy fantasies that apparently her boorish husband will not indulge."

            Doctor-client confidentiality is being breached, Will notes.

            "Only for the sake of the doctor-receptionist relationship." Hannibal leans over slightly, places his hand on Will's. His left hand, where the tan-line of his old wedding band is all but gone in light of winter. He doesn't remember, exactly, where he lost the ring. Could it have been in the Atlantic? Or maybe he left it in a bin at Logan Airport. It may even be in Bedelia's old apartment. It never really mattered. Will lost it as a dog sheds hair. It was a natural occurrence.

            Hannibal's fingers tentatively rub against the empty spot. His eyes lose focus, he is elsewhere. To bring him back, Will smirks and wonders if the good doctor has need to mark what is his. Could he really fall victim to such sentiment as placing a ring on Will?

            Jolted out of reverie, Hannibal looks at Will, into Will, a bone-deep invasion.

            He grabs Will's left horn and squeezes in one quick motion. The resulting bleat sounds like elation. Will can barely see through blurry haze but he can feel Hannibal's breath on his ear and he can smell ardor in the room like a heavy bouquet and he can hear, like music: "My belongings mark themselves by virtue of being mine."

            Will's whining fast becomes ragged, beyond want, crossing into the realm of avarice. He touches Hannibal's other hand which rests on the desk. Hannibal responds by moving it to Will's right horn, gripping, bound by the keening that spills from Will, clean and fresh as stream water.

            Lately, Will has been content with his lack of speech. It hasn't mattered when Hannibal can understand him better than anyone who ever listened to whatever anxiety-ridden drivel escaped him. But now, the urge rises in him, thumping against his throat, reverberating in his molars. He wants to say it.

            He wants to say _Hannibal_.

            What unfurls from his mouth is a long whine, tangled in frustration and the memory of dark water, the push and pull of deluge and firestorm. And Hannibal's nearness: he's chuckling and using his grip on Will's horns to knock their foreheads together, pulling Will into him, pushing into Will. There's a distant sound Will is only the slightest bit aware of, and then Hannibal's hands are gone, and his forehead. Will, with no strength of his own, allows his head to thud to the desk surface. His breathing in shreds.

            The door to the waiting room is opening, producing a homely-looking Argentine in simple attire. Hannibal's next appointment. Hannibal stands by the reception desk, drumming his fingers idly, smiling. He says to his patient, " _Ah, usted es temprano_."

            Will's eyes are rolling like dice. He tries to focus, and gives a huge grin with his head still on the desk, hair twisted around his horns. Drool at the corner of his lips. He mouths: ' _Bienvenida_.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love reading your thoughts, thank you so much!


	8. Women in the Sun

The huff of steam from the French press is audible all the way upstairs where Will stands in the master bathroom. Scents of pecan waffles, the sweet-savory of maple bacon. All of it beckons Will, the siren call that Hannibal has employed all week to get the younger man out of bed and ready to go to the office. It is Saturday, and Will takes his time, readying his surprise.

            He stares in the mirror at himself, eyes bleary from sleep. His horns are dull and greasy from their nest of unwashed hair. Still, he is smiling. Beaming. He's been practicing.

            In just another moment, he can no longer contain himself and half shuffles, half runs downstairs. His hurried footsteps precede him and upon entry into the kitchen, he finds Hannibal in his apron, already staring questioningly at Will.

            Will comes to stand on the other side of the island from Hannibal and says, clearly and brightly, "Ha!"

            Hannibal blinks.

            "Ha," Will repeats, thrilled with the sound of his voice. It is as he remembers, as it was before his birth. Though Hannibal had certainly never been remiss in soothing Will over the loss of his voice, Will mourned it all the same. He wanted it back, and thus far has recovered one syllable. He knows it isn't much. But the surprised look on Hannibal's face – as it melts now into warm awareness – gives him reinforcement to be proud.

            "Well," Hannibal hums, slowly returning to peeling potatoes. He makes no attempt to hide how very pleased he is as Will sinks into sugared satisfaction. "And how long have you been practicing this?"

            Will tilts his head back, revealing one white canine in his grin. He recalls Monday, when Hannibal grabbed him by both horns and it had seemed to Will that he was being gripped at the root of his being.

            Hannibal looks particularly pleased with himself. He tosses a peeled potato upwards. "One surprise deserves another. I have somewhere to take you today. And yes–" He catches the potato on his knife. "You must shower."

*

The last light from the sun is fast fading, remnant orange glow catching Will's horns in the passenger seat. He looks into the small mirror hanging down from the roof in front of him – his horns peek above the volume of his laidback hair. Will purses his mouth at them, eyebrows tented.

            "No one will notice," Hannibal says, staring straight ahead at the road. The sun is on the other side of him, dipping down into the Mar del Plata skyline. "You haven't heard anyone but us mention them, have you?"

            Will shakes his head.

            "Well, then."

            But no one has mentioned his cheek scar either. At least not to his face.

            Hannibal repeats, "No one will notice."

            The Renault pulls into a parking lot downtown – Hannibal has thus far not given into Will's begging about where they're going – and Will wastes no time in twisting about in his seat, looking for signs of where they are. Hannibal rolls his eyes, exits, waits for Will to do the same. On the sidewalk, rounding the corner of a three-story stone building, Will looks across the street at a sign that reads: Mar del Plata Museum of the Sea. His green eyes brighten and Hannibal tilts his head to see the building that has caught his attention. He chuckles, places a hand on Will's shoulder to steer him in the opposite direction. Will now faces a sign that says: Juan Carlos Castagnino Municipal Museum of Art.

            "No fish today, Will," Hannibal says, leading them inside.

            Will is just glad to get out of the cold. The foyer he finds himself in is dimly lit and comfortingly furnished, almost as if lived-in. He gazes up at the chandelier hanging overhead, barely aware when someone puts a wine glass in his hand. He looks down and finds Hannibal clinking their glasses of chardonnay together, smiling.

            He follows Hannibal through the first floor which, he is told, has been reconstructed from the villa of a rich family into a museum housing works hundreds of years old. Sandalwood from oil-burners mixes with the cold-sand scent emanating from the other patrons. Soft piano music, the volume of which is one octave beneath the constant hum of conversation. Hannibal takes him through the rooms, to the back of the first floor. On the wall in front of them hangs a window-sized charcoal drawing.

            Will squints at it – amply drawn women bared to the heavens in Argentine countryside. Hannibal takes it in, drinking steadily from his glass. It's quite possible Hannibal is here for inspiration: what other poses can he find to sketch Will?

            Hannibal frowns over at Will and is met only with a winning smile.

            "Ah, such good taste. Most people, they, hmm, skip over this." A man appears at their side, the other side of Hannibal. Perhaps he had been standing there for longer, but Will hadn't paid him any attention, preoccupied with his own delight in teasing Hannibal. Both look over towards him – Argentine, dark of hair and mustache. His English is stilted but practiced. "I'm apologizing for interrupting. I don't see many who look like..." He searches, tonguing his bottom lip. "They know what they look at."

            Will has no idea what he's been looking at but Hannibal does. The man introduces himself as Alejo Godoy. He shakes their hands as Hannibal glances back at the drawing. "I've always been interested in Raúl Soldi, but have never seen his work in person. This is a great opportunity. Forgive me, but are you Godoy as in Eneas Godoy?"

            "My brother, the curator," Alejo says, looking now at Will. "Family ties bring free art."

            Alejo has probably noticed by this time that Will has been staunchly silent. Even when Hannibal formerly introduces them – Will doubts he will ever get over the tickle he feels when being referred to as Cody – Will gives but a mutedly charming smile. They move through the room, which is decided to Soldi, and Hannibal and Alejo talk on the use of light, and color, the time periods depicted in the drawings. At the same time, Hannibal is holding a completely separate conversation with Will, through glances, body language and the smooth glide of their skin when Hannibal's hand brushes against his.

            Will can smell the psychopath on Alejo Godoy, but it is not coming from him.

            Hannibal has probably been aware of it even before Will, and he considers that the man might possibly be someone else's future victim. The scent wraps around Alejo like a warning to others. This one is spoken for. It's possible they're saving him for a special occasion.

            It's also possible he has a good heart. Viv ran out days ago.

            Hannibal's fingertips touch Will's own. No, then. Not the heart. Hannibal seems to smell something else on him, possibly high blood pressure, but it could also be heart disease.

            His thighs are round and fill up his slacks near to bursting. Hannibal could roast them.

            Either way. Will gazes upward at the ceiling, stretching out his neck. He is another's claim, but Will wants to take Alejo away.

            Hannibal gazes at him while Alejo prattles. Why would he want to do that?

            To see, Will thinks. To see what will happen.

*

Alejo makes mention of his wife as the three of them stand outside the museum, bathed in lamplight and night-cold weather. Hannibal uses this information and seamlessly invites them to dinner tomorrow night. He says, "We would love to have you both."

            There is recognition in Alejo's eyes upon the word 'we'. He looks at Will with hesitation and yet a bit of pre-meditated understanding. "Ah," he says, jovial, "then, your husband?"

            Hannibal gives an affirmative answer and Will nods dutifully, though he feels it is so very lacking. Marriage, an archaic tradition to be sure, but Hannibal and Will's union is by far the elder. Will was born at Hannibal's side, brought to him by divine decree of the ocean. Their altar, a cliff. Their witnesses, the stars. Yes, even someone as hopelessly simple as Freddie Lounds had put it better than mere marriage. Forged through blood and sinew. Down to marrow, they are one.

            Will's thoughts ripple through Hannibal; there is a following look about Hannibal, like he would kill everyone on the street just to amuse Will. He withstands the urge, however, and shakes Alejo's hand goodnight.

            Alejo turns to Will, shakes his hand. "Tomorrow," he says, "we will have, ah, meeting of the spouses."

            Will smiles, and in a bright tone, says, "Ha."

           

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a great weekend, guys! Thank you so much for your thoughts!


	9. Potent and Disastrous

Sea-cold and sun-bright: Will and Hannibal stand amidst the Banquina de Pescadores. Wind kicks up high, harboring salt skimmed from the top of the ocean. It whips through Will's hair, reddens his ears. Dank scents of the fish markets ahead and, near the water, the more aggressive odor of sea lions languishing on the beach.

            There is an underlying concern of their dress. Natives stroll about the piers gruffly, bundled raggedly as they search for the cheapest fish. Hannibal is, as ever, clad in a bespoke three-piece suit and thick black overcoat. Will is his younger, darker reflection, horns catching the midmorning light. Hannibal has remarked they look particularly benevolent today; Will is sure he says such things in attempt to procure blush and smiles from Will. It works well enough.

            In small, open-faced shops, dead fish lay in tubs of ice. So shiny they look nearly alive. Glassy round eyes stare up at Will. They have been placed in these bins only an hour or so prior, their little hearts fluttering and stopping after being plucked from open water. No, later still, as they flopped in the boat. Thrashing for life. Fighting for life.

            Will's upper lip pulls back ever so slightly, his pupils narrow.

            Hannibal's hand slowly comes upon him, holding light to the soft flesh of Will's inner wrist. Rubbing soothing circles with his middle and index finger. Will comes back to himself, but he is so hungry. Hannibal smiles as he talks to the fish monger, as he orders _Rosado_ and _pulpo_.

*

"Alejo just called to let us know they're almost here," Hannibal says, placing the lid back on the huge stockpot before him. The kitchen is drenched in the scent of seafood and more: garlic, onions, the softness of bay leaves, the sharp spice of red pepper. Hannibal has been batting Will away all evening, insisting that he wait until their company arrives before he has a taste of anything. Will has long since given up on the endeavor and is fully dressed – black suit with red handkerchief and tie – and leans back on a neighboring counter. Hannibal continues, "He says his wife is excited to meet us, but she doesn't speak much of English."

            Will rolls his eyes. Wonderful; two people who can't speak to everyone present at the table.

            "You can speak to me," Hannibal says. He undoes the apron from his waist, tosses it over Will's head as he walks by. Will's horns hold it up and he looks like some bizarre ghost-devil following Hannibal through the dining room and into the living area. "Will, I must insist you not greet our guests in costume."

            Will shakes the apron off, looking only mildly miffed. He forgets any annoyance when he finds Hannibal's smile.

            The bell. Hannibal opens their mahogany door so quickly that the two people standing on the porch look taken aback. Will smiles out at them, steps away to allow them entry.

            "Welcome, please come in," Hannibal says, mimicking Will's stance as he moves from the door. Alejo walks in first, greeting them both as if they were old friends. He is shorter than Will, and his handsomeness – which Will has always questioned – is now under bitter siege by the burnt sienna vision that strolls in behind him. She is black-haired and ample-lipped, adorned in a lilac dress with a neckline that plunges almost to her navel. Will is struck by the photo-negative likeness she holds to Bedelia.

            "Your home is lovely," Alejo says, motioning grandly to the living area.

            "Lovely," his wife – he introduces her as Tatiana – repeats.

            Hannibal can tell she is making some effort to speak English, but soon reassures her to speak in whatever feels most comfortable. As they walk through the rooms and into the dining area, Will struggles to keep the snarl from his face. He can smell, like blazing hot winds from the mouth of a volcano, the familiar scent of psychopath – it clings to Alejo and Tatiana, lambent as warning, alluring as anything. They are not the source, but the fragrance is so heavy, so purposeful, that Will considers he and Hannibal have been since sensed on Alejo. This can only mean Alejo has seen his keeper in the interim.

            Hannibal verifies this by giving him a quick glance over the table.

            Their dining table is intimate; it is squared, four-chaired and cherry wood. Will prefers this to Hannibal's old dining room in Baltimore. He and Hannibal are seated across from each other and the Godoys between them on each side.

            Hannibal serves each dish, and says, "A Mar del Plata twist on traditional cioppino. Rose fish and octopus in place of the usual halibut and scallops."

            Will eyes one of the tentacles that rise from the cerise-colored broth. He remembers himself in another life. _That_ Will Graham would have beheld the tentacle like something from the depth of horror, near panic in taking such a thing into his mouth.

            Alejo gushes over the taste in English, and through his own pleasure, slips in and out of Spanish. Tatiana sips the broth in a dainty fashion and says, fondly, " _Bonito_."

            Hannibal gives them practiced smiles, only a scrap of his attention. His eyes are on Will, who neglects the utensils, and uses his hand. Blunt fingernails press into the soft flesh, removing the tentacle from the dish, dripping broth back into the bowl. Will's eyes are deep moss-green in the dimmed light, evergreen, dreary pond-scum in a thick bog. He holds Hannibal's gaze as he takes the tip of the tentacle into his mouth and opens his gorge to the rest. This give and take, the firm yielding of himself and the creature that slithers down his throat. The slightest bit of broth dots the corner of his mouth and slowly navigates stubble, hanging in a fat droplet at his chin. Will raises an eyebrow at Hannibal then picks up his spoon and begins to eat the rest.

            Hannibal downs his glass of wine in one swallow.

            Alejo has been talking all the while, and it plays in the background of Will's thoughts like public radio. He speaks on the museum, and the new Soldi that is going on tour around Argentina. His brother has made arrangements to house it for the following two weeks, and Alejo would be delighted if he and Hannibal – and his _esposo_ , he adds as afterthought – could view and talk on it.

            On and off, Tatiana makes remarks in Spanish, but more than anything she has been watching Will. She dips her head to drink her broth, shoots brown-eyed glances at Will which she must think are furtive. During a lull, she smiles in a way that raises the hair on the back of Will's neck. She says to him, and him only, " _Es usted un silencio, dulce chico_?"

            Alejo freezes as if caught off-guard; Hannibal tenses marginally.

            Will's heart thuds in his ears. From her tone, he takes the probing question as a taunt – perhaps a slight tease to get him to taunt back. She means nothing malicious by it. She is inviting play. Will doesn't care. He smiles at her, open-mouthed, and the noise emitted is rough as gravel, low-toned as whale song: " _Ha_."

            He flips a nearby butter knife into his hand, and with smooth, blunt force, jams it at a slight tilt into Tatiana's eye socket, just above the doe-eye that looks at him. The utensil lodges into her frontal lobe, and the resulting blood spurt is fine and quick, like spray from a childhood water gun. It hits Will from his right temple down to the collar of his shirt. Will squints, annoyed.

            Hannibal pours himself more wine. He then turns and re-fills Alejo Godoy's glass, which had been half-empty.

            Alejo's face is immobilized in dull horror. He seems in a dreamstate, as if he cannot believe that the wife he brought with him to the dinner table is half-slumped over in her chair, plum-purple lips twitching, pretty face red-splattered.

            Hannibal says, "I think you've rendered the brain quite useless. It will be too ugly to eat."

            Will smirks and tilts his head toward Alejo. They have another.

            "Her heart, then," Hannibal murmurs, considering Tatiana as if she were an unfinished painting. "Her heart and his brain, together. I can think of a few preparations that might suit them."

            Ah, Hannibal might as well be speaking poetry. Will continues to eat his soup as Alejo shakily rises from the table, in a state of blind confusion, like a lamb suddenly born into the world. He is near backing from the table, until Hannibal rises quickly, snaps Alejo's neck, and is back in his seat before Alejo even hits the ground.

            Will dips crostini into the last of his broth, soaking it into the garlicked bread. Hannibal continues to sip wine, staring at Will over the haze of candlelight, with such a burn in his stare that Will might be fried beneath it. There is nothing of modesty left in him – Will knows he looks morbidly attractive to Hannibal and he also knows Hannibal will not touch him carnally until Will makes a flat invitation.

            Will milks this.

            He will continue to sit, and eat, slowly, until all of it is gone. He will look at Hannibal and let himself be considered, and let himself be lusted over, because he has been Aphrodite all along, hasn't he? Yes, and desire is a weapon, so potent and disastrous that Ares himself cannot bear to stand against the wilds of his own heart.

            Hannibal exhales, shudders, nods.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your support, guys. So, this week you'll be getting the end of part one and the beginning of part two! Exciting times. Let me know your thoughts!


	10. A Semblance of Normalcy

The night is long and serene. They are up until nearly 1 AM, moving hefty Alejo and lovely Tatiana down into the basement, stripping them, cutting them open – the act of looking for choice cuts has Will in a state of elation. Hannibal takes Alejo, and gifts Tatiana to Will, who breaks her open like an overripe melon. He goes for her heart, which Hannibal has instructed, but he also looks elsewhere and is so taken with the sweet sheen of her organs, their glossy tint beneath the florescent basement lighting, that he does not cherry-pick.

            By the time Hannibal looks over at Will's work, Tatiana is hollowed out.     

            When they are done for the night, Will goes up to the master bathroom and disrobes down to his boxers. He looks at himself in the wide mirror above marbled twin sinks; the line of blood that squirted his neck is still there, hardened and dried. Will turns on the faucet, wets a washcloth.

            Before he can dab at the blood, Hannibal walks into the bathroom, clad in naught but dark blue pajama bottoms. He stands directly behind Will and makes eye-contact through the mirror. Will's hand, clutching the washcloth, stills. Control passes from Will to Hannibal in a current not unlike the divergence of a river. Hannibal's fingertips rest lightly on Will's hips as he dips his head to the crook of Will's neck where the blood stains him. Carefully and not without reverence: Hannibal takes his tongue to the blood and laps a hot stripe up Will's neck. Slow. Contact of eyes unbreaking in the reflection. Will tilts his head, his eyelids flutter but he fights against closing them.

            Warmth – slick, languid, the oncoming of a headache. Slips down from the fizzing at Will's horns, into his shoulders, the base of his spine. Hannibal cleans Will's neck, his saliva wetting a few stray strands of wild black hair. The faucet continues to run before them, rushing, driving Will in and out of the moment like hypnotics. He could swear it was a stream. Or the ocean. The Atlantic.

            Will is clean. Hannibal looks like it takes all of his restraint to pry loose his own soft hold on Will. He draws one canine down the sweet skin of Will's neck, over the thud of his pulse. Straightening, he nudges the back of Will's head with his own forehead, and tells him to come to bed before leaving the bathroom.

*

Will can barely stand it the next day at the reception desk. He's never been a slave to "the Mondays", as Zeller and Price once referred to them. The old Will Graham had walked in and out of classrooms, on and off crime scenes with no regard to what day it was or time or how his weekend had been or how his week would be. That Will Graham had heard his students and people like Beverly Katz talk on things like parties and great ragers that lasted from Friday afternoon to Sunday at 11:59 PM. Will had never had that. He had never had a "great weekend."

            Oh, but now.

            It brought a smile to his face to think of the museum, the scent of a killer drenching the Godoys, and their subsequent blood coating Will and Hannibal's forearms in the seclusion of their basement. Will's own eyes wide in wonderment. Hannibal's hands slick with fat. How, in the middle of the night, as they lay in bed together, Hannibal whispered into Will's ear such promises: he would pour his want for Will into Tatiana's heart, and watch Will take it into his mouth, and that Will would know, ah, he would know what devotion really is.

            Will had never had weekends like this before. And he pities the old him – terrified, fast-blinking thing, hiding behind the shabby shield of his glasses. He had no friends. Not until one barreled through his defenses, all recklessness and seizures, bathing him in hellfire until the _real_ Will Graham emerged.

            Will closes his eyes, head on the cool wood of the desk. What a great fucking weekend.

*

This time, Hannibal does not allow Will to assist him in dinner preparation. When they arrive home after the long day, he tells Will to amuse himself and stay out of the kitchen. He says this, and Will knows that _Hannibal_ knows these words make Will want to be in the kitchen more than ever. Will makes a show of being displeased at such head-games but does as he's told.

            In a few hours, Hannibal fetches Will from where he lays in their bed, reading TattleCrime. Freddie has somehow procured pictures of a new crime scene. Some murderer is on the loose, massacring children. Will imagines Jack must be beside himself, and all alone. No Bella to love. No Beverly to help. No Will to guide. No Hannibal to manipulate.

            "Do you ever miss Jack, Will?" Hannibal asks. He sits across from Will at their dining table, where only one night prior, Alejo Godoy watched his wife flinch and die. The scent of the dishes before them surround Will in a warm embrace. "Do you think wistfully of your time assisting the BAU?"

            Will thinks of those times. He dips his spoon into the offal stew. Pieces of heart and brain and liver and kidney. Spiced heavily and yet delicately with cardamom, clove, juniper. Will takes it into his mouth and it settles there and then slides down his throat. He closes his eyes. Yes, Will thinks of those times. Even, at random intervals, with some fondness. Though he rarely laughed, Jack's shouting and confusion at crime scenes was at times the only amusement in his day. He remembers Beverly and Zeller and Price with some tenderness. Even Alana. Yes. He does think wistfully.

            But not now, nor ever, would he go back. Regression – a futile attempt at crawling back up the birth canal in some clutch at safety and solitude. No. Jack had forsaken him. Alana is no longer soft-mouthed Alana. Beverly is in sections. The womb has been ripped apart. Will did that on his way out.

            Will loves being alive.

            When he opens his eyes, he does, he knows devotion.

            Hannibal stares at him for a long moment, and as he lowers his gaze back to his bowl, he says in a soft but sure tone, "You are so beautiful."

            Will nods. He is aware of the weight of his horns, bearing them as a crown.

*

Behind the chalet, there is a small garden. It wraps around half of the building, blocked high with a tawny wooden fence. The majority of the grassy area beyond the patio is shaded by a jacaranda tree which is barren with winter. Will stands in its long shadow, his upturned face illuminated by the moon.

            He can't believe it's the same sky he once looked up at. Pre-Hannibal. Standing in Wolf Trap surrounded by his pack of strays. Sometimes, he dreams of Winston, the way he would howl at the moon. There was always something wild in that dog. Will supposes he loved him best.

            Will's new packmate opens the sliding glass door behind him, and comes to stand beside Will in the yard. Despite the cold, both men are barefoot. The late hour leaves their street so deathly silent, and the two of them stand so still that Will swears he can feel the earth's passive revolutions beneath his feet.

            "You shouldn't be up so late, you know," Hannibal says, his eyes on the moon. "We do have appointments tomorrow."

            Will gives a silent laugh. Hannibal has certainly succeeded in placing some structure in their lives. Will doesn't mind the weekdays at the office. As long as what he really wants comes after that.

            "And what do you really want, Will?"

            He wants to do what he was born to do.

            Hannibal nods. He says, "Alejo's keeper will know he's gone missing soon. And while the police and his acquaintances may consider this a husband and wife gone off on an unexpected vacation, the keeper will know what's been done and he will want retribution."

            Will turns and looks at Hannibal. He wants the keeper's heart.

            "You will have it." Hannibal glances down, meets Will's shaded gaze. "You will have any heart you choose. I meant what I said before, in no uncertain terms. You are the ruler of this world, Will, and, too, the ruler of my own heart."

            It is hard to do, and comes out so frail it would be unrecognizable to anyone but the two of them. But it's raw and it's here, and he says it, he _says_ it: "Hannibal."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wa-hey, we did it! Part one done, part two shall be introduced in chapter eleven this week. So yeah, thanks so much for your thoughts and support, we've still got a long way to go yet. And please don't think I'm ignoring those of you who've asked about Will's horns, but I'd rather let the story tell you. If you wanna hear me ramble about what's to be expected in part two, head over to my blog! Well, please let me know your thoughts and you'll be hearing from me very soon!


	11. Time of the Season

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, all ye faithful, to part two!

Playa Varesse stretches out in a semi-circle around a small portion of the bountiful south Atlantic. Gold sand expanse overrun with hordes of tourists in various states of undress. The few locals who have ventured out in the height of tourist season can be distinguished by disgruntled expressions and more reserved dress compared to their foreign counterparts. The beach itself seems to screech along with wild children who run ahead of stressed mothers. Back, a ways from the water where all have set up reclined plastic chairs and umbrellas, there are dressing rooms, restrooms, volleyball courts ever-occupied.

            Will has never thought he would like being amidst such chaos.

            He smiles to himself, eyes alive and over-stimulated by the tizzy before him. Through the dark of Christian Dior sunglasses, he marvels openly at the bounty of summer: tourist season. He had never considered this during the cold winter, the long months spent only with the sluggish local population. This sleepy city was simply a quiet place to hide for he and Hannibal. And now, look. Look at this:

            Hundreds of people – thousands! – who have come to the seaside from all over the world, to take in the sun and sea of Argentina, the Fiesta Nacional del Mar, the local food, the modest four hour drive to Buenos Aires. They have also, so deliciously unwitting, come to see Hannibal and Will.  

            Hannibal taking Will here today is not so unlike showing a child to a candy emporium and then proceeding to give them a gift card. Will doesn't know how he can sit here in this chair and contain himself. His horns ache, his teeth hurt, his pupils are narrowed into cat-like slits.

            A hand, palm-up, rests on Will's bare chest. Hannibal's hand. Their chairs are so close together they might as well be riveted as one. Sliding down Hannibal's nose are the same Christian Dior sunglasses that Will wears. "Should you think any louder," Hannibal says, adjusting the hand on Will to rub against him soothingly, "I fear I will never be able to get to sleep."

            Will's face contorts in something that might be considered a sheepish smirk. He can't help it. He wants to eat.

            "And we will," Hannibal says. He leans over, placing his head nearer Will's. Into his ear: "I want you to look at these people, Will. We can have fun this season, but we must be careful. We can afford to be choosy. Make sure to take only tourists that are non-American, if we can help it. We don't want dear Jack, thousands of miles away, becoming aware of a number of missing people from the States, and somehow all missing after vacationing in this little section of the world. Best keep him out of it."

            Will is listening, but only marginally. He is caught in the sweet low-toned voice in his ear, the warmth of Hannibal's breath on his lobe.

            Hannibal gives a sharp laugh and tugs on a loose curl of Will's hair. "You're going to have to behave in public."

            This is not an order but a challenge and Will refuses to behave. He very much enjoys disobeying. Like any wild colt, Will makes a show of being disagreeable only in want of a rider of strong enough resolve to break him. Will flips onto his side facing Hannibal, pulls the older man in and bites so harshly into his earlobe that skin breaks. He says, in remnants of his Southern drawl: " _Han_ nibal."

            The ripple effect. Hannibal's inner surge of heat and want and love rushes back in a torrent so strong it is liable to knock Will over. Hannibal tears Will away from him by his left horn, squeezes, and with such force does he lay Will back into his original position. "Be good," Hannibal says, ragged.

            Will is good for the rest of the outing.

*

Over the last few months, Dr. Rip's practice has flourished verdantly. The appointment log is bursting, so full that they have had to turn potential clients away due to too long a wait time. While clients traipse in and out of the office, sitting in the over-stuffed waiting room chairs, peering curiously at Will, Will has had much time to pour over his dictionary. He is quite adept at mouthing his Spanish and clients seem to appreciate his calm disposition and cheery soundless greetings. When there is no one in the waiting room, as present, Will has chance to practice speaking aloud.

            He can, thus far, only clearly say his packmate's name. He uses this ability on occasion to throw Hannibal's concentration: at the stove range, on the drive home, when he slides over to Hannibal's side of the bed and then scoots back after such a whisper, leaving Hannibal in a rigid state before Will happily falls into unconsciousness. It enthralls him like nothing else.

            Every other sound he emits is garbage – though he is making some progress with the _m_ sounds. My. Milk. Mister. He feels as if he is on the verge of saying some word, but he isn't sure which one. All he can do is practice. Hannibal assists him in this – Will shivers at the memory of Hannibal tugging at one of Will's horns while Will is panting on his knees, sweat-sheened, in naught but boxers, making such raucous "mmmm" sounds and Hannibal's laugh-lined voice telling him to say what he means – but only every once in a while.

            Will is scratching distractedly at one of his horns when the office door opens. Hannibal leads Julieta Ramos out. She is one of his most loyal clients, coming every Monday at 3 PM like clockwork. Will has grown quite accepting of her, as she has made habit of complimenting his Spanish.

            She makes her next appointment and says to Will, " _Mos vemos la próxima vez_."

            _'Si por supuesto_ ,' Will mouths. He and Hannibal watch her go, and it is silent between them until her footsteps diminish.

            "Her husband has disappeared," Hannibal says, leaning on the desk.

            Will tilts his head.

            "At least she can have her orgy without interference," he mumbles, simply to see Will's smile. At length, he shakes his head. "No, but I do find this troubling."

            Will considers this. Hannibal thinks he's been kidnapped.

            "I wouldn't say kidnapped so much as murdered. She says he's been gone since last Tuesday." Hannibal's hand comes to rest over Will's – he rubs lightly the younger man's knuckles. "He left for the store, for milk. And never returned. The police tell her husbands go missing all the time. Get bored with their wives. Leave for adventure and excitement and younger women. This, of course, did nothing to ease Mrs. Ramos' suffering."

            It does sound rather suspicious. Although Will has not smelled any scent of psychopath on Julieta and by extension there couldn't have been much of a previous trace on her husband.

            "I could see it as a coincidence. Impulse. That, or–"

            The psychopath in question could possibly be Alejo's keeper. Will doesn't know how he could possibly have found Hannibal's practice, but it is a possibility that he's interested in picking off clients. Maybe simply in greeting.

            _Hello. I know what you've done._

            "A tooth for a tooth," Hannibal says. He drags his fingers up Will's arm, ghosts over his neck, ear, into his hair. The length of his left horn. They tower slightly higher over Will's laidback hair, growing slow but gradual. Where once they were dull-tipped, now there is a point. Hannibal tests it by pushing his fingertip down, and – no, not yet sharp enough to draw blood. "We should wait and see if he takes Mrs. Ramos as well, or shows himself in another way."

            Will sees merit in waiting. He also wants the keeper's blood on his hands, in his mouth. He takes great pleasure in picking off sheep from a herd. But there is such thrill in taking down another wolf. Sometimes he thinks back on that night with the Dragon. He wants _that_ again. Lambs may struggle for life – but they don't thrash like a dragon. They don't breathe fire. In this keeper, Will senses possibility. It will be good sport.

            Hannibal's gaze deepens, and though unsmiling, his expression is wholly appreciative. "Tonight, we will see what happens."

             

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julieta, to Will, says she'll see him next time, and Will says of course! For those interested. So, guys, if you want more, you know how to tell me!


	12. No Malice

8:34 PM at Playa Varesse: rushing of tide upon shore, the insistence brought on by the force of the moon. The air is cool and on the wind are far-away shouts from the sparsely occupied volleyball courts. A few beach-goers linger in the low waves. Twenty-somethings playing chicken. Teenage girls. A mother and her two children. And a man on a candy-striped beach blanket, secluded near an outcropping of rocks. He watches the children in the surf, the young girl and boy who surrender their naked bodies to waves.

            The man moves in such a practiced way. Surely none on the beach can see his hand moving beneath his swimming trunks, nor the glossy look in his eyes when the little girl scuttles from the water after a crab. The man will sit there, half-hidden by rocks, until he is done. He will leave then. He will return the next night.

            Will jaunts over, all bright eyes and hop in his step. He is clad in Bermuda shorts and an unbuttoned white shirt that reveals his tanned torso. Sunglasses are pushed up into his hair, held in place by beloved horns. When he plops down next to the man on his blanket, the man nearly falls over in surprise.

            "Jesus fuck, what are you doing?" His hand flies from his groin, and he uses the other side of the blanket to cover himself. "Christ," he mutters. His accent is something from the south of England.

            "Hannibal," Will says. What he really says is: 'You are being incredibly obvious, you know.'

            The man looks at Will incredulously. "What? Get the fuck away from me."

            "Hannibal," Will says. What he really says is: 'Actually, I need to get closer to you. This is a strange new scent, and it'll probably be useful if I learn it. So if you don't mind...' Will leans over, places his face in the crook of the man's neck. He inhales long and deep.

            The man is scrambling to get away, and bumps into Hannibal who has seated himself on his other side. When the man looks up, his expression of anger devolves into horror. "Look, guys, I don't want any trouble."

            Hannibal pays him no attention. "Have you got his scent, Will?"

            Will leans further in. Inhales again. It is rather disgusting: spicy and almost burnt, a lingering heat that will probably last in Will's nose for a few hours at least. When he takes himself away from the man, he nods. Swallows it down.

            "This will be interesting," Hannibal says. "It's not surprising to find many pedophiles at a beach in vacation season. They are drawn much in the same way we are, Will."

            The man's face reddens. "What the fuck?"

            "It is not our place to pass judgment." Hannibal looks over at his packmate. "But we can consider this a public service. When you put down a rabid dog, it is simply so that it bites no one; there is no malice for the dog itself. No malice, Will. Do you understand?"

            Will understands. He looks up at the moon, shakes his head loosely to crack his neck. He bears no ill will. He wants what he wants. It's all in good fun.

            Hannibal smiles in such a way that looks kind, calm, to Will alone. To the man between them, it is wholly disconcerting. "Very well," Hannibal says and grabs with one hand the man by the back of the neck. With his other hand he muffles any screaming, and he and Will drag the man back behind the rocks to where there is a deep enough pool of water. Will smiles at Hannibal and helps him dunk the flailing man down. They hold him under, and over his thrashings and the spray, Hannibal says, "The lungs will fill with saltwater. Pre-seasoning."

            Will laughs, soundless and raw. Water splashes Will's face, his hair, his horns. It feels so nice after a long hot day. Hannibal watches him with a serene expression, until their charge dies beautifully in a profusion of bubbles. When they release him, he floats humpbacked. Over his body, there is silence, and the roar of the waves and the laugh of children down the stretch of beach. Will leans down, slaps the water in a spray directed at Hannibal – it hits, drenching the older man further. Hannibal rolls his eyes. Will does it again, and again, until he's able to goad Hannibal into fighting back, until Hannibal has tackled him down into the limpid pool and they are soaked and pruning and lightly rubbing the sides of their faces against each other.

*

Dreaming, of late, is finally treating Will with tenderness.

            He can remember, though not without some stress, dreams of old. Before his birth, night-and-daymares, the ravenstag ever at his side – dogged and unknown even to itself, as Will had been. Now, settled steadfastly in his shared bed with Hannibal (shared bed, shared mind, shared dreams) he finds peace in unconsciousness.

            He finds Hannibal in these dreams, sometimes. Knows that when Hannibal is there, Will is present in his packmate's sleeping mind as well. It isn't so detailed or formed. Every once in a while, he will dream of his time spent with Jack Crawford, assisting the BAU. He dreams of the sterile rooms where they all stood around a body, or two, or three, bodies that Hannibal had set before them.

            Out of these dreams, Hannibal will turn to Will and the others – dear Beverly, Zeller and Price – will freeze in place. His suit changes from tan-plaid to black to sea-deep-blue as he walks towards Will. He says, "You've always been mine."

            In this state, Will's voice box is intact. He looks at Hannibal in absolute understanding. "Yes," he says. His own clothes change from soft sweaters to ragged plaid, until he finally stands naked, as he is aware Hannibal has always seen him. "Yours to burn," Will drawls. His pupils so wide they could swallow worlds. "Yours to eat."

            Hannibal's sharp teeth gleam. He leans in, until his face is buried in the sweet scent of Will's neck and he takes his teeth and whole mouth to the most sensitive spot – sucking, biting, until Will is writhing against him, until Will is burning, fire-logged, melting, until he is clad in black and smells of Noir de Noir and horns grow strong from his scalp and in his ferocious glower he takes very existence inward.

            Will wakes moaning, struggling in love, and he realizes that Hannibal is clamped around him, strong arms pulling him in, their legs entwined. Hannibal's mouth is on Will's neck and as soon as Will reaches consciousness, Hannibal awakens. There is a wet popping sound, the suction's end. In the grey lovely dawnlight coming in through their bedroom window, Will sees Hannibal's sweat-sheened body. His chest heaving, bangs clinging to his forehead.

            "Will," Hannibal murmurs, staring at the younger man. For a wonder, he looks something akin to demure. "I was dreaming of you," is all he says.

            Will nods, settles forward to replace himself in Hannibal's heated embrace. They are hot, sticky. But it is not yet truly morning and Will would like to go back to that blessed place.

*

"Murder Husbands Detection Organization," Hannibal reads later that morning, as Will does the breakfast dishes at the sink. He is in naught but boxers, as usual, but also sports a gleaming bruise on his neck, the product of their shared dream. Hannibal has touched it with lustlorn fingertips, has nudged his head against Will's in quiet apology. Will is in simply the highest of spirits, watching out the wide window as their neighbors trot to and fro along the sidewalk.

            Hannibal continues:

            "While there remains great dissention at the FBI of the Murder Husbands' – Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter – survival, there exist other groups dedicated to proving the existence and flourishing of the pair of killers. One such group, the Murder Husbands Detection Organization, or simply MHDO, have taken root in Baltimore, Maryland. Their president, Farley West, says the group is an impartial alliance dedicated to the truth. Neither on the side of the law, nor the Husbands, they gather information on sightings and piece together what they believe to be a murder-spree that spans the globe. When asked about the importance of such groups to the re-capture of the Husbands, Jack Crawford, Chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, had this to say: 'I wish groups like those would take a hint from Will and Hannibal and jump off a cliff.'"

            Will snorts, covering his mouth with a non-soaped wrist. When he turns around, Hannibal's gaze falls straight to the bruise.

            "A murder-spree around the world," Hannibal says disinterestedly. "Now that would be something."

            Will looks up in thought. Maybe after enough time has passed, they could go on vacation.

            Hannibal smiles. "Yes, that would be doable. Despite how... inane this group is, I cannot help but be gladdened by its existence. Such an organization will be jeered at and mocked, forcing their cause to be taken as a joke. That means us. The sooner we fall into the pages of history the better."

            There is quiet agreement from Will's end. Though he does wonder at how eager Hannibal is to become mythology. Once upon a time, Hannibal thrilled at being a known and yet uncatchable shadow. He would throw out just enough chum to attract the ire of the authorities and then stand back and watch as they chased their own tails.

            Why is now so different?

            Hannibal sets the tablet down, and when he looks up, his gaze softens. Will's smile is sweet and easy, green eyes inviting. The sun behind him shrouds his body in an ethereal glow.

            "I do not," Hannibal says, "want to lose you."

           

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me hear your thoughts below, they make my day!


	13. Stronger than Pride

Hannibal has made suggestions as to Will's outfit for the day: perhaps something high-collared, close to the neck. Maybe something, simply until the bruise diminishes, that is slightly modest.

            Will sits at his reception desk in a maroon button-up shirt. He has neglected to button the first two. His hair brushed back in such a way that not a strand covers the purple-black mark on his neck. He wears it as if it were fine jewelry, a broach of onyx and amethyst.

            As each client leaves the office, stopping by the desk to make another appointment, Hannibal lingers in the doorway to shoot disapproving glances at Will. Disapproving in the way a woman might look at a man who fingers her under the table of a high-class restaurant. Oh, he shouldn't. Oh, but it feels so damn good.

            Will looks agitatingly proud of himself.

            Sofi Aguilar, a woman of barely twenty, hops over to the reception desk. She has been chatty with Will for weeks now, and seems to adore him. She is beautiful in a way that is buoyant entirely upon youth: russet and pink. " _Aya!_ " Pointing at the mark on the receptionist's neck. " _Usted diablo! Cody, dime, quién hizo eso?_ "

            Will smiles in a put-upon fashion. He looks up, and to the side, and places a finger on his chin. He shakes his head, much to Sofi's groans and pleas. At length, she waves goodbye to both the doctor and receptionist and leaves the waiting room in giggles.

            Met with Hannibal's skeptical glance upon turning around, Will can only smile.

            "Ms. Aguilar is in high spirits," Hannibal says, ignoring the smile and walking over to the desk. He nods his head towards the door, where Sofi had stood only a few seconds prior. "Her younger sister has gone missing. Meaning Ms. Aguilar is now the prettiest of her five siblings. Or so she tells me."

            Will nods slowly, and thinks it is certain now. The keeper knows what he and Hannibal have done. That is not the problem. The problem is he knows where they are, who they are, and they do not have the same information on him.

            "True. But I think he might be trying to tell us."

            Will closes his eyes. It is a playful set-up, he has to concede. If the keeper was intent on being aggressive – a show of power, say – then he would just take the clients outright, and draw attention to Hannibal's business. But no, he hasn't. Instead, he takes family members. Sofi's sister. Julieta's husband.

            Yes, family. As Hannibal has said before: a tooth for a tooth. The keeper is taking family members because they have taken family members of his. Alejo and Tatiana. Will's eyes are still closed when he feels Hannibal's familiar hands gripping his horns, when he is struck by the fervent whisper in his ear calling him a cunning boy, when he cannot do anything but moan and say the only name he knows.

*

The once-infested street stands ghostly in light of the sudden rainstorm. Tourists and locals alike rush into buildings: restaurants, libraries, and one of the two museums that Will stands between, though he can see from a few drenched tourists' faces that they did not mean to doom themselves to time spent looking at paintings or mollusks. Will stands on the street beside the grand Juan Carlos Castagnino Municipal Museum of Art. He looks up through the thin material of his cerise umbrella, the rain rushing down over the mansard roof, into the gutters, down into the little gardens peppering the building's corners. Will reaches out into the rain, collects water in the palm of his hand. He tilts his head back to drink from it.

            Dark is coming on quickly, aided by heavy rainclouds. Lamps light themselves down the street – hazy aurous bubbles in sheets of rain. There is, in this, some memory of Baltimore. Time pre-birth is now uncertain: he feels events are out of order, or mixed up, or sliced in half. But so vividly can he remember a night where it poured torrentially and he stood in the rain and wondered what would become of him.

            "Evening."

            Will glances to his left and finds a man standing there, who's face he cannot see for both of their umbrellas. He is clad in a dark suit, his thick hands bronzed and covered in black hair. The hand rises beyond the cover of his umbrella and he collects rain in his cupped palm. He drinks from it.

            "Only took you guys two invites to meet me here," he says. His English is smooth from long years of practice. "Speaking of which, where's the other one?"

            Will takes this opportunity to lift his umbrella, and the other man does the same. They look at each other, take in the curves of their faces. Will considers that he is slightly more handsome than his brother, but not by much. Sturdy-built and sable-eyed. Will's own height.

            "Ah, I get it," Eneas Godoy says. "So, if I were to stab you or something, the other one would jump me. Clever."

            That's not the reason Hannibal is absent, but of course Will can't communicate that. So he lets Eneas believe what he will.

            "Well, listen, I didn't invite you for that. I'm not a barbarian. Although I will say I found it quite rude of you both to take my brother. And Tatiana, too. Talk about greedy."

            Will's eyes brighten.

            "I'm not angry. Well, I was angry. I'm not anymore." He takes more of the rain, drinks it. Will follows his example, and for a long moment, they both stand beside each other and taste the sky. Eneas continues: "I have a younger sister, too, you know. Just don't grab her and we'll let bygones be bygones. It is a little funny, I have to admit. The night before he went missing, Alejo told me he'd met two men and they invited him over for dinner. He said one of them was enthralled by Soldi, that I should meet him. I'm going to guess you're not that one."

            Slowly, Will shakes his head. He smiles, and in the distance, there is a blue streak of lightning.

            "Well, you'll share my views on this with him, won't you?"

            Will nods.

            "Please don't be strangers," Eneas says, turning and walking behind Will. He is heading towards the museum's front door, but stops only a few feet away. "Come by and see the art at your leisure. I have not seen a pair in a long time. I cannot say I'm not the least baffled by it. But do show me. Show me how deep love can be."

            Will watches him go. The building's soft glow swallows him. Will turns back to the street, Hannibal is pulling up in the Renault, and the passenger side door opens for him.

*

"He wants to kill us, but he isn't sure he can manage it," Hannibal says, both hands resting leisurely on the steering wheel. They sit at a red light, nestled in post-work traffic. In the backseat, a few bags of groceries jostle each other: milk, eggs, yeast, tomatoes. Hannibal had been at the store, and sent Will to meet Eneas. It would allow them to get home in enough time to start dinner. Will has communicated to Hannibal the essence of their conversation, and as Eneas requested, his general views on the matter.

            Will nods in consideration. Who wouldn't want to kill new rivals? There is no telling how long Eneas has been operating in the area, nigh unchallenged.

            "He's been doing this with enough finesse to never be caught, at least," Hannibal says as the traffic begins to break. They drive on in the thunderstorm. Will's scent of Noir de Noir is dampened and he smells like wet earth. He can tell Hannibal is enchanted by it and is having trouble concentrating. "I'm not interested in worrying about it. You still want his heart."

            Yes. Will still wants his heart.

            "That's all that matters then." Hannibal smiles and glances over at Will. "We should postpone killing him, though. I would hate to lose out on an open invitation to view art galleries. I've heard a few Pueyrredón paintings will soon be on display–"

            Will groans.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Sofi called Will a devil and asked who gave 'that' to him. Also, thank you so much for your comments! Please let me know how you and the story are getting along. :3


	14. Nourishing and Pruning and Care

A week has passed since meeting Eneas at the museum. The days that follow after Will can only describe as blissful. It rained constantly but the tourists were insistent in their endeavors for fun and thus, so were Will and Hannibal. They worked all day. Went out every night. Came home – their beautiful home – with rainwater in their eyelashes and blood in their teeth. The moon seemed full all the time. Hannibal cooked in such a way that never seemed to fill Will completely. He was in a constant state of want and in some strange way, also in a constant state of satiation.

            A long time later, Will would think back on these small wet days. And he would wish they had gone on forever.

*

Will wakes mid-scream, as if the strange voicelessness of his own cries jolt him. Hannibal's eyes are open; he watches as Will writhes between the sheets. Body slick with sweat. Will squints, tries to find focus, and ends up settling on the ceiling – bubbled plaster stares back down at him. The bubbles seem to be moving, turning endlessly in circles.

            _Oh_ , Will thinks. _I'm dying._

            "You're not dying," Hannibal says. His voice is roughened with sleep and yet tempered by love. He reaches over in his way which is always so careful. Lays fingertips in Will's hair. Searches. Finds his horns, those sweet demon appendages. He takes one and just squeezes a little, trying neither to induce pain nor pleasure. Only relief.

            They hurt. Will's headache starts in his horns, rattles his teeth.

            "They're growing," Hannibal says, rolling onto his stomach. He massages the horn he's grabbed very softly. "Don't worry. Think of it as pubescent pains. Cramps."

            If Will could muster a glare, he would. There's something unsettling about being compared to a young girl starting her menstruation. Though deep in him, he does feel it is not untrue. Hannibal is always right, he's found. That notion both adores him to the man and annoys him deeply.

            Hannibal's chuckling is soft. It's barely morning and the sky is grey. Will's horns throb like sore muscles.

            He wants to know how big they will grow.

            Hannibal says only, "Big enough."

            A few long minutes pass where Will is cocooned in pain and keeps himself together through Hannibal's expert touches. How can he know to do this? How can he touch Will this way, in such a way that alleviates a strange pain? There is something to be said for love and longing, but Hannibal knows where Will hurts as he would know his own injuries. Will is some kind of extension of him, and he is so thankful.

            Hannibal says neither of them will be working today, and when Will is lulled into a sore pre-sleep, Hannibal gets up and showers.

*

Will wakes late in the afternoon. He vaguely remembers Hannibal offering him breakfast – something that smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg, with the overtone of fresh dough from the oven – but he has denied it, and any other food brought to him over the course of the day. Waking, sleeping, in only the loosest of definitions. When he opens his eyes, his horns seem to throb in protest, so he doesn't open his eyes at all.

            But Hannibal knows he's awake, and Will can sense the man beside him. He smells of salt, sea, but Will's senses are confused for his reckless headache. His features arrange themselves in a half-smile, half-grimace. He leans to his left, feels Hannibal's strong arm beneath his head. Everything is so sore, so tender. Even this bit of contact causes him pain, but he is not disagreeable to it.

            "Pain is necessary sometimes," Hannibal murmurs. "So we know we're alive. So we remember what it's like to feel intensely."

            Ah and does he ever feel intensely. Like little needles are pressing down into his scalp at the base of his horns. If he tilts his head ever so slightly, the needles turn to whole shards of glass. He breathes in, steady. Waits to exhale.

            "Already, they're bigger than I remember them yesterday. Would you like me to describe them to you, Will?"

            Will can't nod, but he can grunt and so he does.

            "They seem," he begins slowly, "to be shining even blacker than before. The black-brown has begun to turn pure midnight. And in this light, with the orange of the sun hitting them, they are almost red. The soft velvet has diminished and–" Will can feel the tap of Hannibal's fingertip on the left horn "–they are sharpening. Yes, almost... almost enough to draw blood now. The left seems to be growing straight up, slightly bent forward. Not unlike a bull's. The right seems fairly rebellious in that it is bowing outwards and curving back in."

            Will gives something like a disappointed grumble.

            "They are too beautiful for words, Will," Hannibal says. His voice is low, close, in Will's ear. "They grow like the rest of you, wild and dangerous. If you gored me with them, it would be the most pleasurable death. Aphrodite herself was never so lovely."

            This slightly amuses Will, and he manages a lopsided smile. Aphrodite, the lame goddess who lies in bed all day, moaning of pain. Surprising that was never mentioned in the epics and poems.

            Hannibal laughs. "This bed is your altar. I will worship you here in due time."

            Will shudders and sinks into unconsciousness.

*

It feels like quite a while has passed when next Will wakes. But Hannibal is there beside him – Will can sense him in smell, in aura, in vibration, even before he opens his eyes. And he does open them. It is slight, and bleary, but he opens them and does not experience as much pain as before. He can smell something else besides his packmate, too, something sweet.

            "Will, you must eat," Hannibal says gently. He sits near Will in a red sweater and black pajama bottoms. It is dark outside, and from the nightstand, the analog clock says 11:04 PM. In Hannibal's lap is a silver bowl of honeyed dates. "You may not be hungry, but I insist."

            Will turns his head away and grunts thinly. The dull throb of his horns continues ever onward.

            "Will," Hannibal says.

            The chiding tone in his voice will not sway Will. He does not want to eat.

            Hannibal responds to this with a low sigh, and there is an unspoken current between them and Will knows Hannibal will win. That doesn't mean he will succumb easily. The pain in his head is making him disagreeable, and he intends to encourage himself in disobedience. It's warm under the covers and he slides further down into them.

            "Do not force me to handle you roughly, Will."

            But maybe it's what he needs, Will thinks, sullen. His own body is handling him roughly. His thoughts are muddled, unclear. Senses skewed. He doesn't like feeling so weak, so helpless, but here he is moaning in bed.

            Then, like a wave crashing into him, Will feels an overwhelming presence of Hannibal's determination. It manifests itself in Hannibal's firm yet gentle hands taking Will's shoulders and turning him onto his back, eliciting a feeble cry from Will. Then, Hannibal's hand on his chin, tilting it upward. Thumb running against the coral lower lip. He pries Will's mouth open, and Will is barely able to resist.

            Hannibal's trying not to laugh, but Will hears it and does his best to glare. His mouth is open and Hannibal's fingers are inside, his pointer and middle fingers, between which is a honeyed date. Slips it onto Will's tongue.

            A small second of final resistance. But then it's so sweet, and it's so good, and Hannibal's fingers in Will's mouth for some reason compel Will to swallow. Hannibal smiles, runs his now wet fingers along Will's lips. Will is cocooned in pain and also in love, and he takes the nearby fingers back into his mouth and sucks lightly.

            Hannibal stills. His gaze intense, on both his fingers in his packmate's mouth and the dazed, half-open green eyes staring back at him. When Will lets him go, Hannibal continues to feed him the dates until half the bowl is gone and Will is sleeping.

*

Will sleeps on and off throughout the next day. When he wakes up, Hannibal is always in the bedroom with him: either reading TattleCrime over in the armchair, or simply laying in bed with Will. Once, Will woke with his hands secured in Hannibal's, their bodies curled to facing the other. The shock and intimacy of this pulled Will in closer, until their foreheads pressed together, and Will was lost again to sleep.

            He finally wakes in a state that is not so fuzzy with agony at midnight the next day. Hannibal is there, sitting cross-legged on the bed diagonal from Will. In his lap this time is a blue washcloth and a small vial of what appears to be oil.

            "Almond oil," Hannibal says as Will struggles to sit up straight. Hannibal pours a bit of the oil onto the cloth, then sets the vial aside on the nightstand. A calming scent fills the air. "I was thinking about ways to alleviate some of your pain, once you could stand to have the horns handled without searing discomfort. This might hurt a bit, but it will be for the best in the long run."

            Will smiles, breathes in the almond oil scent. He doesn't nod but gives a non-verbal ascent, and Hannibal shifts closer to him.

            The first touch is hesitant: the washcloth covering a firm hand, gripping Will's right horn, his rebellious horn. Tentative. Hannibal's gaze only on Will's facial expression, which is between pain and pleasure. Hannibal takes this in stride and rubs with a sweet pressure down the length of the horn. The time it takes him to rub from tip to base is longer than it would have taken him a week ago and by this, Will can guess they've grown a good inch and a half, possibly two.

            Hannibal says, "You are everything I could have wanted and more." The lull of his voice is such that he might not be aware he's said it aloud.

            Will's head tilts back despite his effort to keep straight. "Hannibal," he says, soft.

            "Yes."

            Will bites his lower lip. The oil is warm, seeping into Will from the very top of him. Hannibal's motions are slow, steady, constant and agonizing. Will's body, once lank and limp, begins to stiffen. Veins stand out on his forearms, and his toes curl in, stretch out in intervals. Hannibal re-oils the washcloth and starts on the other horn, that which is not unlike a bull's. Will's body, in response, is pulled tight like a violin string. He has been exhausted from days of pain, despite near constant sleep, and thought he had no real ability to vocalize, but he does, he vocalizes, and the sounds he makes are varied, long and short.

            Hannibal murmurs, his voice hypnotic: "My Stradivarius."

            Will is mewling. Sweet kitten cries. Begging, and it sounds so clear, the "Mmmmm," that drags from him. My. Milk. Mister.

            Hannibal leans into Will's ear and tells him things he isn't sure Will can retain. Things about when they first met. And Will's glasses. And being in Will's house. That each time he saw Will, he was acutely aware of every artery in his own body, and aware of starlight that reached them from billions of miles away, and God and gods and nymphs and sirens and Will's own siren call to him, yes, Will, because even back then you were calling to me, and you were in love, I could see it in the way your jaw worked and your throat flashed and the way you cried.

*

At some point the next day, Will wakes with little to no pain. But Hannibal is not there.

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kind comments! Please keep letting me know what you think!


	15. What Kind of Man

If there is any residual pain bubbling at the base of Will's horns, he no longer feels it. He springs from the bed as if he had never had any convalescence at all, and stands in the center of the bedroom, head cocked to the side. He cannot smell anything cooking downstairs, cannot hear Hannibal's minute footsteps anywhere in the house.

            Will neglects to pull on anything past his boxers and he pads downstairs into the hollow of the kitchen. Mid-morning sun comes through the open window, bounces off the chrome appliances. Will squints in it, raises a hand to cover one eye.

            "Hannibal," he calls. Listens. Nothing.

            He wishes their bond were stronger, which is not a thought that crosses his mind often. He and Hannibal haven't been separated by more than a single door since the day the Dragon came for them. Since that time, Will's thoughts and those of his packmate's have intermingled, always toeing the line of each other, caressing over the chasm of physical barriers. Now Will feels Hannibal's absence like a vacuum. He is alone.

            He will not panic. Will not, not, _not_ panic. Hannibal will come back. He will always come back.

            But why did he leave?

            Will sits at the dining table, in his normal seat, starring at the empty spot across from him. His mind turns immediately to Eneas Godoy. Who else could have drawn Hannibal out? Perhaps Hannibal felt he should go take care of him and not bring Will because of Will's sickness. The notion makes Will want to rip the horns from his head. It's their fault.

            "Hannibal," Will says and it devolves into careless moaning, his forehead coming to the tabletop. He tries not to whine but whines anyway. The long "mmm" sounds spill from him, choked, but he knows what it is now, he knows.

            He isn't sure how long he sits there – five minutes? two hours? – but his body is stiff from the hunched over position and as if in response to his soreness, the front door opens and suddenly Will can sense Hannibal again. He shoots from the table, knocking the chair over in his haste, and launches himself into the living room, past couches and coffee table, sees Hannibal close the door behind him and turn to regard Will with a look of muted surprise.

            Will throws his arms around Hannibal's neck and pushes him back against the door. "Miss," he cries, face contorting in anger and his mouth working the fresh new word. "Miss! Miss, Hannibal, miss."

            "Will," Hannibal says, the word falling from him in a dull shock. "I didn't know you would be up so soon."

            What sort of excuse is that? Will woke up completely alone.

            Hannibal stares down at Will for a long moment, and then so slowly does he smile, and his hands come up to gently cup Will's face. He says, "You missed me."

            Will rolls his eyes. Of course he did. That's why he said it. That's why he can say it. "Miss," he murmurs, letting the word roll from his tongue.

            "I shall have to frustrate you further to get more words out of you," Hannibal says.

            Will looks unamused.

            "You know I do enjoy the way we communicate non-verbally," he continues, "but the difference between your voice and your thoughts, Will, is the difference between the orchestra and radio." He leans in, places his mouth in Will's warm dark hair. Breathes in. "I have a surprise for you. Something to honor your new word, let's say."

            Will rubs his cheek against the fabric of Hannibal's shirt. He hopes it is not more art.

            "It is," Hannibal says.

            Will sighs.

*

They have to wait until night, Hannibal says, so they are not so conspicuous. Will waits around all day, in no particular hurry to go see stuffy old paintings. He, too, is still a bit sore with Hannibal. Surprise or no surprise, art or no art, he did not appreciate the bile sickness that rose in him at Hannibal's absence. And in a way, it is a soreness not solely at Hannibal but perhaps also at himself.

            He did not know it would feel so bad.

            Their bond: caramelized and drizzled in maple syrup. That kind of sweetness. He had tasted it constantly for so long, tongue and senses drenched, that he hadn't conceived what it would be like without such cloying sugar. Sour replacement. Vomit sickness. The lack of something essential. Fish out of water. Thrown out of time.

            He'd felt lost and he hated it. He never wants to feel that way again, and he pushes this sentiment into their bond as if it were the key to life, because it is, it is. Hannibal is not unaware of this, and throughout the day, he does not speak much. He places his forehead to Will's gently, or holds his hand. Goes out to the jacaranda tree behind the house, which is now in summer-bloom, and picks flowers to give to Will. Apologies – mute, like his love.

            They take the Renault out after 9 PM, the windows rolled down. Warm salted breeze through their hair, blowing it back from their foreheads. It is not so unlike that night long ago when they left Maryland for Massachusetts. The memory finally brings a smile to Will's face.

            Hannibal parks in the grass, under a row of trees on the left side of Playa Varesse. When they step out and come down into the sand, Will breathes in heavy, lets the salt settle into his lungs. The sky is clear, finally unblemished by rainclouds. They are dressed in long shorts, unassuming t-shirts. Barefoot.

            To the very left of the beach, at the edge of the water, Hannibal stands with white foam up to his ankles. He turns back and holds out his hand to Will.

            Will takes it without hesitation.

            Wading out into the surf, until the water is up to their knees. Then further to the left, around an outcropping of rocks that jut from the sand like black crystal. The water rushes continuously at them and it's cold and lovely, and distantly Will wonders what kind of art gallery is in the sea.

            Now, the water at their waists. They lean up against a rock the size of a small one-story house, completely blocking their view of the beach. Hannibal turns to Will and tells him they have to swim a bit. He says this in a cautious way, as if wondering about Will's thoughts on swimming. Considering how he was born.

            Will is not traumatized by the circumstances of his birth. To show this, he grins and cannonballs into the water, waiting in the current for Hannibal to follow. When he does, Hannibal goes back to leading, and they crash with the waves around the rocks, further and further from Playa Varesse. When Will can no longer see the sand behind them, or the volleyball courts or skyline lights of Mar del Plata, it seems their swim is done. Hannibal comes to a cluster of dull boulders, half worn away by the sea and covered in mollusks, barnacles, seaweed and slime. He lifts himself up onto them, throws down a hand to help Will up as well.

            Will shakes himself to no avail, only succeeding in getting seawater in Hannibal's eyes. He laughs voiceless, and looks up to see the expanse before them, a deep cave that smells of damp and ocean secrets.

            Hannibal slides a wet hand back through his hair and walks ahead. "This way, Will."

            Will follows him, using only his sense and the sound of Hannibal's footsteps to guide himself with any reliability. Every move they make echoes the deeper in they go.

            Hannibal says, "I've been coming here every so often throughout your convalescence. I was sure a place like this existed, but finally I found it when I caught a strange scent nearer the beach. I wanted to take you when you were better. But I didn't take into account that you would wake up while I was gone, and further I did not know it would upset you so. For that, I'm sorry, Will."

            Will walks closer to Hannibal and, slowly, places his head gently on Hannibal's shoulder. "Miss," he says softly.

            "Me too," Hannibal says. Then, "In through here." He takes Will's hand, ducks down under a lowered ceiling of the cave, and they are able to stand upright again on the other side. Will can suddenly smell something very familiar and his pupils narrow even in the dark. Then–

            Light. Dim, but light, and blue, light blue, reflected off the cave walls. The light hangs down from stalactites, and upon squinting Will can see they're bugs, glowing bugs. They cast shadow-heavy light down the wet cavern walls and hanging like paper lamps between the stalactites are human hearts that hover overhead, turquoise in the glow.

            Will's eyes are wide, wide, so wide on them. Twenty – no, closer to thirty. Suspended by kitchen twine, it seems.

            "Eneas Godoy's art gallery," Hannibal says, wandering into the middle of the sizeable cavern. Puddles of water deep and shallow on the ground, reflecting the ceiling and the two men staring up at it. Eneas' scent permeates the cave. And it mixes with old blood, and the sea. The scents together are overpowering. Will can't get enough. Hannibal continues, hands held behind his back, "He really is a lover of art. It almost looks like the night sky. Perhaps he had meant for his brother to hang here as well."

            Yes, and Tatiana.

            Hannibal turns and looks at his packmate: chest rising and falling catastrophically. Eyes wide, teeth bared. Horns shining blue. "He has need of two hearts."

            Will looks at his packmate: drenched, clothes clinging to every plane of his body, every edge of muscle. Hair plastered to his forehead and sharp cheekbones.

            Will manages to smile through the hunger coursing in him. He stumbles backwards, eyes up on the looming hearts. The slick wall of the cove hits his back and he leans against it, head lolling to the side.

            He places a hand over his own heart.

            Eneas wants this.

            It is a funny, fluttery feeling, to have something that someone wants so intensely. To possess it. Hannibal approaches Will tentatively.

            "Do you mean Eneas or me, Will?" he asks. Will's name echoes.

            They stand inches apart and Will's left hand slides up the wet wall, palm open. For a long moment, he does not meet Hannibal's intense stare. Hannibal's hand clamps Will's, palms slide against each other, fingers laced. The older man leans forward, and they can hear each other's breathing in stereo. Hannibal's forehead comes into soft contact with the wall behind Will. Front planes of their bodies connect effortlessly. Drenched, cold shirts. Fevered skin underneath.

            Will tilts his head to the side, slides his nose against Hannibal's in a gentle nuzzle. Hannibal's breath on his lips. His breath on Hannibal's bared teeth. All of his restraint. Will nuzzles him again.

            "Hannibal," he whispers. _Ah, my heart is yours. It is your belonging. And will you, Hannibal Lecter, allow Eneas Godoy to take what is yours by birthright?_

            "No," Hannibal grounds the word out as if pained and he receives an invitation and he accepts this invitation and he pushes forward until their mouths collide. The noise that Hannibal emits is nigh inhuman, a guttural groan that seems to have taken root in his being long long ago. God has put it there and Will has set it free. Will feels it in his own mouth and down into his throat. He takes the full brunt of Hannibal's ardor, thick hands clutching at Will's shirt and sides, teeth biting down into the sensitive lower lip and taking and taking.

            Hannibal seems to barely catch himself by some tiny strand of self-restraint. He pulls back just a little. Releases Will from his teeth and returns to him with nothing but love soft as spun sugar. Their lips melding together, his tongue in Will's mouth, tasting him like some new and yet familiar delicacy. His favorite food. His favorite wine. Bursting with flavor, so sweet and spicy and smothered in salt. Will's arms around his neck. Will tilting his head up, and opening his mouth and spilling into Hannibal the very blueprints of his genetic makeup. Old love and ache. New love and pressure. Letting Hannibal know this chthonic secret:

            _Your longing is not one-sided, Hannibal. It never has been._

             

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, a slow-burn fic's first kiss is always a cause for celebration, isn't it? Leave me some thoughts and I shall carry on!


	16. Miracle Deep

The Renault pulls up to their chalet just before dawn. By now their clothes are half-dry, like their skin, and everything of them smells of the sea cave. The house is familiar and quiet, the first bits of roselight from the dawn creeping in through the kitchen window.

            Up the stairs, to the master bedroom. Salted clothes pulled off in languid motions, dropping to the floor in wet piles. Down to boxers and in bed. The sheets and duvet feel like heaven against the skin, like falling into a cloud. Hannibal chuckles low in his throat as Will sighs against a pillow. They won't go back to work until Monday, and they have all weekend to themselves. Will is reminded of when he was young, and faked sick to get out of standardized testing in middle school. Staying in bed long after the medicine had worn off, dozed.

            This is something else.

            When he dozes, Hannibal is there in his half-dreams and when he is awake, Hannibal is beside him, one arm slung over his side. If someone would have told twelve-year-old Will Graham that this would be his life, he would have laughed himself sick. This kind of warmth and security. With a man such as this. Who has made Will as he is.

            A twelve-year-old Will Graham would not have believed it. _How could that be_ , he would have thought. _I could never be so happy._

*

Kissing:

            In a near-teenage fashion, they cannot get enough of it. Will, in particular, is struck by how different it is with Hannibal compared to his past experiences. Most notably, Alana and Molly. They were soft-mouthed, passive and slack. Hannibal, even in his most gentle of moments, is nothing short of a dominating force. Will braces himself against any available surface, has to. Briefly it crosses his mind that this may be the difference between kissing women and kissing men. Hannibal is Will's first, and only. They are long past any thoughts of sexuality, as such things are worries of lesser creatures.

            Hannibal kisses Will as Ares has kissed Aphrodite.

            Aggressive, because he is a war god. Pleading, because Aphrodite's method of warmaking is so close to the chest.

            It is touch-and-go for a while, neither man quite sure how often and when and where it is expected of them. But they know their own desires and crave it every waking second. At breakfast, during the dishes, in the afternoon and under the jacaranda tree. Will tries to have a conversation with Hannibal about anything: TattleCrime, Eneas Godoy, the kill they drag in on Saturday night, the weather. And during this all he can do is stare madly at Hannibal's lips until the older man kisses him.

            Will has never felt such need. Hannibal's hands press firmly into the small of Will's back, onto his hips, his shoulders. He lifts Will to sit him on a kitchen countertop and kisses him slowly, tantalizingly, until dinner is ready. They sit across from each other over the dining table and eat and think of how different their mouths are now, the movement of their own lips foreign and yet more home than ever. Will tastes Hannibal even past the heart roulade he's eating.

            Hannibal drains the last of his wine glass, and glances across the table. "You taste how I always expected you would," he says at length, bringing Will's attention to him. "Perhaps even a little sweeter, if that's possible."

            Will grins widely. Hannibal is trying his hand at flattery.

            "Flattery? No. If I was attempting to flatter you, Will, I would tell you how the prospect of one day tasting your sweetness kept me lively in Alana's mental hospital. Fantasies. I dreamed of you opening your mouth and allowing me the divine privilege of exploration. A search for what makes you so immaculate. I remember a time when I thought all your secrets and wonders resided within your mind. And not much later, perhaps in your mouth. I am of the opinion that I am getting closer." Hannibal's eyes are dark, so dark. "But perhaps your miracle is much deeper than that."

            There is some noise Will emits – between a whine and groan. He leans forward, hunched, until his shoulders touch the table's edge. Pink lips parted. "Hannibal," he says.

            Hannibal's smile is so quick Will almost misses it. "That's what I would say... if I were to flatter you." He pours more wine.

*

Will has been stubborn all morning in defiance of returning to work. He cares nothing for their Monday patients, he simply wants to cocoon himself in their bed and gorge himself on Hannibal. He thinks this all morning, groaning, refusing to dress until dragged into the walk-in closet by his rebellious horn. In the car, down busy morning streets, Will's arms are crossed and his expression undulates from annoyance to outright displeasure.

            At red lights, Hannibal pulls Will over by the back of the neck and kisses him.

            The workday is overly long. Will is in a constant state of frustration: each patient shows up early to their appointment, waits in the plush waiting room. So eager to get to the good doctor, to cry in his office.  By the time the previous patient is finished, ushered out by Hannibal, the next one is near jumping into the freshly empty office. Hannibal looks at Will briefly over the patient's shoulder before closing the door. He makes no expression that betrays his thoughts.

            Will is not so composed. He sits at his desk, chin to the cool wood, expression in perpetual frown. They have not been alone since coming to work and it drags on Will like a weight tied to his ankle. He licks his lips impatiently.

            Hannibal's 4 PM appointment sits directly across from Will in a lavender armchair, looking idly at magazines. He doesn't even seem to be reading them, just flipping agitatingly through glossed pages. Will sighs inwardly. They will never be alone at this rate. He scratches at the base of his bull's horn and fiddles with his Spanish-English dictionary. This is going by too slow.

            The door opens again and Julieta Ramos precedes Hannibal. They step out into the waiting room, and the man – Tomas Soto – stands immediately. Will eyes him with thinly-veiled distaste. Julieta has not even left yet, but Tomas looks like he's ready to tackle his beloved Dr. Rip for his attention.

            Julieta shakes Hannibal's hand, dabbing at her swollen eyes with a tissue in the other hand. She is the reason Hannibal is constantly having to refill his tissue box in the office. In the past, Will has made suggestion that Hannibal tell her to bring her own from home. Hannibal responded with a beleaguered tug on Will's horns.

            Julieta comes to the receptionist desk to set up her next appointment, and Tomas heads to Hannibal. At this point, the door to the waiting room opens. It has pushed in only an inch before Will's head snaps up at the scent that precedes Eneas Godoy.

            "Ah," he says, black-black eyes widening in slight surprise. He is clad in a black tuxedo, bowtie perked at his neck. His hair is slicked back, shines under the waiting room light. In the hollow of the archway he stands, unmoving, like one of the paintings in the museum. "Quite crowded in here. You are a busy doctor."

            The hair on Will's neck stands up, and his pupils have turned to slits. Leg muscles tightened, whole body leaning forward in his chair. It is only Hannibal's insistent body language feet away – _no Will we cannot kill him here stay there don't not yet Will relax Will are you listening Will?_ – that keeps him seated.

            Julieta looks at Eneas in slight confusion, heightened by Will's fervent stare. Tomas only looks inconvenienced as the new man in the room has stolen Dr. Rip's attention.

            "You came to see my gallery. How does it please you?"

            Hannibal readjusts his shoulders and looks unrattled. "Beautiful," he says and Will knows he means it. "Breathtaking, really. You have quite an eye for such things. Pity you did not go into making art that can be enjoyed by a larger audience."

            "You know, I was just saying that to myself." Eneas shakes his head and grins. "Oh but it's nice to have a second opinion." He looks at Will. "And third."

            Will is having a hard time containing himself. His horns feel horribly heavy. Hannibal's head tilt towards him says that if they kill Eneas here, they will also have to kill Julieta and Tomas. Will wouldn't mind killing Tomas. Julieta is another matter. His growl is so low in his throat that only Hannibal and Eneas can hear it.

            "I did invite you to see the art at your leisure," Eneas continues, "and of course I meant it. Here's another invitation: the Fiesta Nacional del Mar is coming up this weekend in Buenos Aires. I plan to procure a few new pieces to enhance the gallery. It's sure to be a good time. See if you can make it."

            Hannibal nods once, so slowly. "We graciously accept your invitation."

            Will's upper lip is drawn back. His pupils are like dots in his eyes. He grips the seat of his chair with fists so tight it threatens to break.

            Eneas seems to notice the hard time he's having. He looks at Will fondly for a second and raises both hands in surrender, smiling in a way he must think is benevolent. It only serves to unnerve the two patients in the room. Will feels like a twig under too much pressure, the tension, the hunger, oh, he's going to snap, and the second before he does, Eneas eases back out of the room and slowly shuts the door behind him. His scent and footsteps diminish down the hall.

            Tomas looks bewildered, and more so annoyed. " _Qué fue eso_?"

            The departure of Eneas Godoy does little to soothe Will. He can still catch him if he wishes. He's still in the building. Will's hands grip the front of his seat and there is a loud groan from the wood and plastic in it, bending, breaking. His teeth bared to the fullest extent, a vein standing out on his right temple. Hannibal is in front of him before he can vault the desktop and then his hand is under Will's chin, and his mouth closes on Will's top lip. Soft. Grounding. There is a hush in the room, which follows only after Julieta murmurs, " _Ay, Dios mio_ ," and past that, Will cannot hear anything but, for some reason, echoing of the ocean.

 

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wild child, Will. Your comments all mean so much to me, you guys are awesome! Please do continue!


	17. Territory

After work, Will is still marginally twitchy. He jerks at the slightest noises or sudden movements of people on the street, and his eyes are blurry from their earlier intense focus on every movement of Eneas Godoy. Hannibal watches Will in the car on their drive through traffic-laden streets. The sunset lights his profile afire. Before they make it into the residential district, Hannibal takes an unexpected turn, and tells Will they need to pick up something on the way.

            The brightness of their basement hours later, long after the sun has gone down, and after they have dragged two living bodies into their den. Two young males, barely twenty: both have injection marks on their necks, and they lay side-by-side on metal tables that have been pushed together. Both Argentines, brown-skinned. The one laying before Will is sparsely mustached, Hannibal's is clean-shaven.

            Will stands in disarray, has been almost unresponsive all evening. He stares at the man before him, the incessant pulse at his neck. The ongoing thud of life.

            Hannibal says, "I hadn't imagined such a severe reaction from you over territory of all things, Will. I dare say you will never cease to surprise me."

            Yes, Will had not imagined this either. He wonders if Eneas walked into their domain with any idea that Will would react in such a way. Or did he count on the presence of patients to stay their hands?

            Hannibal makes no comment on this. One of the two men on the table, he closest to Will, is beginning to stir. Eyelids fluttering. Hannibal leans down over the unmoving one, mouth slightly open. "Will," he says. "I want you to watch where I bite."

            Will watches.

            Quick is the flash of sharp teeth, Hannibal's mouth is suddenly latched onto the man's brown neck. The puncture, and – Will's whole body shudders in response – the subsequent torrent of blood from the jugular. It covers the lower half of Hannibal's face, drenching him in red, pooling out onto the table, flooding onto the floor. Travels towards the drain. The man has jolted unconsciously, limbs in flail. His arm has hit his friend in the face, finally forcing him to open his eyes, some somber moan escaping dried lips.

            Hannibal straightens again, hands held behind his back. He is filthy with blood and Will is both envious and enamored.

            When he looks down, his young man is staring back up at him with wide wonder eyes. His fingertips are twitching. He's gaining feeling in the tips of his toes, probably, that buzzing-needling sensation. His mouth works to form words, but his voice isn't working. Ah, Will can commiserate.

            He leans down and smiles at the man, all teeth. When his canines sink into the soft flesh of his neck, finally, finally noise escapes the man. Bass heavy screams that devolve into whining, thin, bleating, a dying sheep. Will has not tasted death in this way before and it is nigh euphoric. Blood floods his mouth, overloading his senses, the coppery smell lodging itself in his nose. The feel of the man in tremors beneath him, Will's hands on his shoulders now to keep him plastered to the table. His cries gurgle into nothing. Will's teeth so far in he's scraping bone. Eyes rolled back in his head.

            Whole body lurches forward.

            Yes. Yeah.

            He feels his face stretch in some odd way – is he grinning? is he smiling? – but it's all background. The foreground is this: he's drinking the blood. Slurping it down as it rushes in. The force of the ruptured jugular is gushing. Broken dam effusion. Will stands in the flood, swept away by it, embracing it. He wants all that's given to him, yes, and – more. More.

            Then, something gentle: Hannibal's hands at his shoulders, pulling on him. Just so soft. And a probing thought that comes with those hands, that perhaps he shouldn't be drinking so much of this. And he hadn't realized but it's apparent now as his eyes come back from the inside of his head, he somehow had crawled onto the table, on top of his prey, laying prone and sucking the life from him. When he comes to stand on the floor again, he is soaked from horns to feet. Some lofty goofy grin on his face as he looks at Hannibal.

            The blood on their faces slickens their kiss, tongues dripping wet. Blood and love coats them both. The twitchings from earlier and all of Eneas' imposing upon their space has washed from Will. He didn't know this was what he needed, but Hannibal did, and the thought hits Will like a locomotive: _I am more myself every day._

*

Prilidiano Pueyrredón. Hannibal said this name to Will as if it were supposed to mean something. Upon the blank stare that Hannibal received, he seemed to fight the urge to sigh and proceeded to explain the importance of his paintings in the long art history of Argentina. A master, Hannibal had said. His work is now on loan from the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes at the Juan Carlos Castagnino Municipal Museum of Art, Hannibal had said.

            We must go, Hannibal had said.

            And here they are. On Wednesday evening, the entire building is swarming with the Mar del Plata social elite. Will watches them passively from behind the liquid veil of chardonnay. He and Hannibal stand on the second floor, and besides the sandalwood scents from the oil burners, Eneas Godoy's scent is also in the air. This has minimal effect on Will, as this is Eneas' territory, and not their own. His shoulders are back, loose, and in the glossy reflections of glassed paintings he catches sight of himself, completely lovestruck with his own image.

            He and Hannibal stand before a widely framed portrait of a young woman, brown of hair and nude in a bathtub. Water waist height. Will is not sure he gets the appeal of these paintings.

            "Pueyrredón was one of the foremost in costumbrismo, and a prominent starting painter in Argentine culture. All roads lead back to him in Argentine painting. Or so some say," Hannibal murmurs before sipping from his own chardonnay. His glance strays from the painting to the other side of the room. Will follows his gaze. Eneas Godoy is standing in a circle with other socialites, all men and women taller than him, but he seems to have command of their attention. For just a second, Eneas catches their gazes and his lips twitch to a smile before he looks at his companions and breaks off their conversation. He glides between them, around the antique furniture in the room, through to Hannibal and Will.

            "I had a feeling," he says as he comes to stand before them, "that you two would show up. It's nice to see you."

            Hannibal nods graciously and Will does something akin to a smile.

            Eneas looks at Will, eyebrows tented in a mockery of regret. "And to you, I'm so sorry about the other day."

            Will doesn't think he's very sorry.

            Hannibal clears his throat, but is unable to completely hide his smile or chuckle. Instead of bringing attention to the confused look on Eneas' face, he says, "You're never alone, are you, Eneas?"

            "Well," he says, looking upward, "I'm quite the popular man."

            "I'm sure you are. But you're frightened, isn't that it? You're frightened of what we might do should we catch you without meat shields."

            At that, Will flashes a genuine grin. He feels the familiar fizzing at the base of his horns.

            There's a singular pulse that passes between them. Eneas is unable to veil the intense discomfort he feels and Hannibal and Will exchange a glance so quick it is uncatchable by any third party. For one small instant, Will scans the room and weighs the lives of everyone there. Ten people in this room, maybe six or seven in the next. How long would that take? If they ripped the jugulars of everyone–

            Hannibal's resulting purr from Will's thoughts is heard by Eneas. The curator raises one eyebrow calmly and takes a step backwards. His eyes dart around and he straightens his jacket lapels. "It wouldn't be very fair," he says in levity, "two on one."

            Hannibal smiles. "There are many who consider that to be quite an enjoyable situation, Eneas."

            Eneas retreats another step.

            Will is inwardly laughing and trying to keep a straight face outwardly. He's _unnerved_. Eneas Godoy is completely rattled. Is it that Eneas is weak-willed? Or is it that Hannibal and Will exert more of a force than he had prepared for?

            Instead of acknowledging Hannibal's remark, Eneas raises both his hands slightly as if welcoming them. "We're seeing quite a lot of each other, aren't we? We're almost like old friends now. You admire my work... I admire yours." He looks over at Will for a long second, then Hannibal. "Huge body of work, I must say. Why, with the two of you together, you're far more prolific than I ever have been."

            Will fights the urge to knit his eyebrows. Eneas could not possibly have seen anything they've done – they've never displayed bodies in Mar del Plata.

            Eneas opens his mouth slightly, then smiles and closes it. He says at length, "Well, I can't be rude to the rest of the guests. If you'll please excuse me. Until the Fiesta."

            They nod to excuse him and he disappears into the folds of the gallery patrons. Will is left with a confused look on his face until he hears Hannibal's mutter beside him:

            "He knows."

 

             

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts on the chapter are so appreciated. <3


	18. Queen of the Sea

Hannibal opens the door to their chalet and allows Will to storm inside ahead of him. Hannibal pauses on the porch, door open as Will paces in the living room and in a fit removes his tie – tosses it behind the couch. At length, Hannibal enters and closes the door.

            If Will could, he would scream. But he can't. So he whips around, all muscles flexed, green eyes like sirens.

            Why didn't they kill Eneas Godoy in the museum?

            "Will," Hannibal says, standing feet away. He sounds so calm. And Will is made of static. "We could not kill as many people as were present. It was unfeasible."

            But Eneas knows. He knows who they are.

            "Yes. And we will remedy that in a few days. He wanted us to know he knows. He's attempting to use it to bait us into making a mistake. Like causing a scene at the museum tonight," he says and takes another step toward Will. When Will doesn't retreat from him, Hannibal takes a hand to Will's rebellious horn and simply lays fingertips upon it, unmoving.

            Will's expression distorts. He isn't sure if he's angry at fucking Freddie Lounds for spreading their photos everywhere all the time in some mad attempt to feed off of their notoriety, at Eneas for looming it over them, or Hannibal for restraining Will.

            Hannibal's hand reflexively grips Will's horn with a horrifying amount of strength. "Restraining you?" he asks, voice low.

            Will winces, head jerked up by his horn. Yes. At the museum, after Eneas had wandered away into the crowd, after it sunk into Will that Eneas knew he was Will Graham, he had felt such a spike in his core, an intense longing to pin the curator against a wall and spill his bowels from his rotten sack of flesh. All he could see was red, and as if in reaction to the whirring bloodlust in Will's head, Hannibal had taken his packmate by the wrist and led him downstairs, out of the building, onto the street and forced him into the Renault.

            "I was preventing you from making a mistake." Hannibal keeps his grip on Will's horn tight and forces the younger man to look at him. "Both of us from making a mistake. Had you started, Will, I would have followed on instinct. I had a second to choose rationally and I did. We cannot be impulsive to that extent."

            As if Hannibal has never behaved on impulse.

            "I have and there were consequences. I don't want those consequences for you."

            Will emits a thin whine, half from the pressure applied to his horn, half from his displeasure. Somewhere in Will's mind, he knows Hannibal is right. Yet the rest of him is still hazed by indignation and bloodaching. Hannibal's free hand comes to cup Will's chin, pad of thumb rubbing against his lower lip. Some strange apology. Will does not want any tenderness as his apology. No.

            He jerks his head down and buries sharp teeth into the fleshy palm. Hannibal barely flinches and as blood runs through Will's teeth, down Hannibal's wrist, his lips spread into a half-smile. He watches as Will sucks and buries his teeth deep. Green eyes rise to watch Hannibal's reaction.

            Hannibal releases Will's horn, places his arm around Will's waist to pull him in. Will begins to tear skin, shaking his head as his pupils dilate. Eyes closing. Hannibal's face in the crook of his neck, mouth open, licking slowly at the hollow beneath the ear. Wetting strands of hair. Will's mauling takes cues from Hannibal's tongue on him and he slows, gentles, bites with love and drinks with lust.

*

Friday evening is spent, for the most part, in the car. The trip to Buenos Aires is nearly four hours and though Will would have liked to spend the time watching the Argentine country pass him by and bickering with Hannibal over the music choice, he is so utterly spent from the week that he sleeps throughout it. His moods have been up and down, jerking him about so in the case of Eneas Godoy that at finally traveling to get what he wants, Will's body falls happily into unconsciousness. And he wonders distantly if this is what Hannibal meant before, during his convalescence – pubescent pains. Did that include such violent mood swings and reactions?

            In the small moments when Will's eyes open, in the continuous gentle rocking of road beneath the Renault, he looks blearily at his packmate. Hannibal's hands on the steering wheel. One, his left, is bandaged neatly. If anyone asks, Hannibal might say he slammed his hand in a door. Or perhaps that he was mauled by a wild animal – which is no lie. Before falling back into sleep, Will thinks he is so lucky. He is not sure there is another man in the world who could tolerate such violent intimacy.

            Hannibal looks over at him. He says, "I delight in it."

            The next time Will awakens, he is leaning against the door and against the night sky a grand building stands before him, neoclassical in structure and held up by strong white pillars. It is alight with golden floodlights. Hannibal is opening Will's door, has handed his keys to a young valet standing nearby. Another comes and takes their bags.

            Will stumbles to his feet, legs still left behind in sleep. He is only half awake as Hannibal leads him with his mauled hand. The vast foyer beyond ceiling-high doors: glossy marbled floor that Will can see his own reflection in. The chandelier above, like all the stars outside spun into one light source. Voices from the staff, in slick practiced English, welcoming them to the Palacio Duhau. The elevator, and the bellboy at their side. Third floor, a long brightly lit hall.

            When they are finally alone in their suite, all Will can see is his predetermined pathway to the bed. He falls into it, the left side of the expansive king mattress, Egyptian cotton bedclothes caressing him. As he opens his eyes again, and for the last time before night-long sleep, he sees Hannibal sitting on the bed beside him, shoulders slumped from the long drive, hand torn and bandaged, expression overflowing with love.

*

Noontime at Las Toscas beach: thousands of people surrounding the outdoor arena that looks onto the southern Atlantic. The air thick with salt and sweat and _asado_. Vendors line the flanks of the large stage, peddling _alfajores_ and snow cones. Between the stage and the sun-glossed sea, locals and tourists alike line the beach, thick as carpet, jammed together tight.

            Will watches from by the water, foam at his ankles. Sunglasses atop his head, held back by sturdy horns. He and Hannibal stand in the surf similarly dressed in white t-shirts and long grey shorts. Hannibal is working to hide the grimace on his face. Will is working much less.

            He can't smell anything useful. Everything is muddled, the pastries from vendors, the copious amounts of ointment and suntan lotion emanating from the masses. He can't smell Eneas Godoy.

            "He's here," Hannibal says, sounding sure but, too, bothered by the mass of coagulating odors. "We will just have to wait. He wouldn't miss an opportunity like this to gain hearts for his gallery."

            Ah, and what hearts are available. On stage, twelve young Argentine girls stand in a row, all ivory teeth and oiled bronze skin. They stand in bikinis and one-pieces, of bright and flashing colors. A male jury member, clad in an unreasonable suit jacket and khaki pants, holds a microphone to each girl as he interviews her on her thoughts about the ocean and their closeness to coastal life. Will can only marginally understand, as each girl speaks almost too quickly.

            To unburden his senses, Will abandons focusing on scent. He looks at Hannibal and proposes a bet.

            Hannibal's eyebrow rises. "What sort of bet?"

            Which one will win Provincial Queen of the Sea. Will tilts his head back slightly, and in the sunlight his horns glisten unnaturally. Radiant. Hannibal's expression is somewhere between love-struck and disinterest.

            "You can hardly tell," he says, looking at the stage anyway. He squints behind sunglasses. "None of them are saying anything particularly profound. They will probably be judged on whoever's swimsuit is the smallest. And that being the case, the winner might be the fisherman's daughter, two from the right. In the red."

            Will nods, considering. He eyes the girls again – none of them younger than sixteen, none older than twenty. Argentine flowers in full bloom. Sea-swept hair, all of them, eyes wide as saucers. He will bet on the youngest, she who wears a lime one-piece and keeps repeating _encantadour_ as she is being interviewed. Will knows this word from Julieta and Sofi back in Mar del Plata. Lovely. They have said it of him on occasion, and Hannibal has stood behind them in the doorway, looking at Will as if their echo.

            "Very well," Hannibal says in a slight mockery of long-suffering. "And what exactly are we betting on, Will?"

            They could bet lots of things. Eneas' killing blow. Or the song choices on the long drive back to Mar del Plata at the end of the weekend. Will thinks these things while holding his hands behind his back and taking a closing step between him and his packmate. He nuzzles his forehead beneath Hannibal's chin, wraps his arms around the other man's waist. Tugs him down into a kiss.

            "Will," Hannibal's voice is mirth-laden between kisses, "Will–"

            Both break from each other nigh simultaneously, wearing identical expressions of pure recognition. Will's upper lip rises in a half-grimace; Hannibal scans the beach. It's that scent. It's covered by the multitude of stronger smells coming through, but it's there, it's there. Unmistakable. Will's gaze flickers up to the stage where they have closed the curtain. The jury deliberates, the crowd buzzes lazily like a hive. Somewhere within lies the Queen.

            Will crosses in front of his packmate and strides into the crowd from the left. He knows Hannibal will take the right. Yes, he has the scent, but within the crowd it is so much harder to keep hold of it. His pupils are narrowed impossibly. One hand down into the deep pocket of his shorts, fingers encircling his switchblade. A little girl runs in front of him, her mother after her, and they're doused in sun-tan lotion. Will's resulting grimace seems noticed by the mother and she hurries away after sparing him the slightest glance.

            Further in. Eneas' scent teases him through the crowd, making him walk one step forward, two to the left, back three. Did it come from–? Oh, but here... no. No, not here. You're here. We know you're here.

            Will isn't sure how long he searches the crowd but he has the scent strongly within his grasp. He holds onto it as if it were rope, the only way out of a chasm. Climbing higher. Breathe in. Deeper now. And higher. Ah, higher. Until–

            The top of the ridge.

            Will has placed his hand on the smooth wooden side of the stage. He's walked straight past the jury table, and only one of them pays him any attention. The curtain is drawing up. They must have chosen their Sea Queen. Will looks up, gaze rising with the thick red fabric.

            Ah, and a new and incredibly familiar scent rises with it. Will knows before he sees.

            Blood-drenched women sit slumped against the back of the stage, and from lovely – _encantadour_! – round holes in their chests do they pour life. Dribbling down their fronts, rivulets down thighs. Heart-sized holes. Twelve would-be queens heartless and as Will thinks this, as he takes it in the sound-vacuumed scene before him (block out the crowd screaming the shrieking the stampeding starting from the back and the only female juror fainting just block that out) he thinks it wholly breathtaking. Ah, Eneas, you really are an artist. Their hearts are likely full and plump and young and new. Sweeter than _alfajor_ , lighter than _rogel_.

            He thinks this until he looks closer and finds that the sea-queens have been replaced by tourists. American tourists.

 

           

           

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have been so great to me with your comments that I wanted to post a surprise Saturday update! So let me know your thoughts and I'll be back with more!


	19. Problem Solving

Shortly before 6 PM, the orange sun hovers two fingers above the sea. Las Toscas beach is drenched red and purple and red again with the smears of heart's blood across the open-air stage. Few tourists and locals linger on the beach, past the yellow tape erected in a perimeter around the stage. The Buenos Aires Metropolitan Police have cleared away vendors, and speckle the stage with their presence. They pry questioningly at the dead girls.

            On a hill overlooking both beach and sea, Will and Hannibal stand side-by-side. Salt-laden breeze through their hair, grass brushing against bare ankles. Eyes darkened by shadows. Trained on the stage, people moving about below like ants.

            Secondary scents have diminished. The suntan lotions, the heavy air of food wafting down the beach from open-faced restaurants and hot-cart vendors. Perfume from prospective Sea Queens. The young girls had all been ushered away as the police were called. Their fathers and mothers could be seen refusing to talk to the police and reporters who swarmed the girls.

            The only scent coming through now is, overpowering and all-consuming, blood. It pools below the hill where the dead bodies lay. But it trails away from them. A golden thread glistening in late-day sun. A breadcrumb trail.

            Will's throat flashes as he swallows, the only movement he's made since coming up to the hill. Hannibal seems to hear him gulp down the bloodscent, and he turns his head toward the sandy decline back to level ground.

            "Let's go," he says and leads.

            Will follows.

*

A while ago, Hannibal disclosed to Will much on the subject of his therapy sessions with Bedelia Du Maurier. He told Will – in terms that were certainly only for flattery's sake – that he was the main topic of conversation since their first meeting. He couldn't get Will out of his head, he'd said, and like a love-struck teenager he spoke on his object of affection to the only one he could talk at length with. Bedelia. Though, as his psychiatrist-under-duress, she often tried to redirect the conversations back at Hannibal's person.

            He recalled, specifically, a reference she made about his veneer. Person Suit. She said he wore a Person Suit. He told Will that at the time, the very sound of that name made some part of him weigh Bedelia's life. As time went on, and his introspection lost kid-gloves, he realized it was wholly appropriate.

            Person Suit: a disguise to be used at any time, but mainly applicable when the user no longer resembles a human being beneath. Beneath the Suit lays an ancient thing, animalistic and single-minded. Intent. A black mass congealing in itself, melding into one with nature.

            Person Suit: what Will and Hannibal are currently wearing in the lobby of Alvear Art Hotel.

            Will sits in a plush chair in the air conditioned wide room, lined on all sides by ceiling-to-floor windows. It is nearly as big as the lobby of the Palacio Duhau, but not quite. He crosses one leg over the other. Smiles at people who smile at him. His Person Suit is itchy, ill-fitting. Hannibal talks to the front desk, far more at home in his Suit from years of practice. Will sees the very instant that Hannibal finagles the housekeeping key from the side of the desk. The staff are too dazzled by his Person Suit to notice.

            Hannibal fetches Will and they take the nearest elevator. Will has a handle on the scent that is iron-fisted. Blood and Eneas. So entwined they are almost one.

            The fifth floor hallway. Scent brings them to the third door on the left. The key is in Hannibal's hand and seconds before he can use it, the door opens.

            Tan-faced Eneas holds it open. He stands in the threshold with a mixed air about him, warning and welcome. He manages something like a smile, steps back from the door and motions into his suite. "I've been expecting you," he says and it sounds to Will's ears like a lie, though he isn't quite sure. As they walk in, Will glances to Hannibal for confirmation but it seems his mind is elsewhere. The suite is expansive, and much like the downstairs lobby with ceiling-to-floor windows. They look down onto the city, and the sunset flares in their faces. Drenches everything in rosegold.

            The door shuts behind them, and Eneas joins the two in the middle of the room. They stand amidst a few armchairs arranged around a mahogany coffee table. The bed at the head of the room looks untouched.

            "Please, sit," Eneas says, motioning to the armchairs. He takes one for himself, in front of the wall of windows. The light flares around him. He drips shadow. He also drips the bloodscent they've been following, but his skin is clean, and there is a hint of cucumber-melon about him. He's showered recently then. Will tilts his head in question while Hannibal sits opposite of Eneas.

            "Eneas," Hannibal says. Eyes fervent in the dying light. "I don't think I need to tell you that what you did out there might have some consequences."

            Will walks around the room lightly, letting his feet rest only barely in the shag carpet. The scent isn't coming from Eneas' person. He wanders over to the linoleum that starts in the glassy-countered kitchenette.

            "You don't need to tell me at all," Eneas says. His eyes aren't visible for the shadow, but Will imagines he is having a hard time deciding who to look at. "Oh, the famous Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham. I remember reading about you, in... what is that news rag? I don't right off remember. But the FBI. They're hot for you. I wonder if this would get their attention."

            Hannibal tilts his head the slightest bit. "I didn't mean consequences for us. I meant for you."

            "But my consequences haven't changed at all."

            Will walks straight into a Styrofoam cooler behind the counter. He looks down, hears ice rattling. Ah.

            Eneas continues upon no reply: "You've made up your minds a long time ago to kill me. Perhaps even before I showed you my face. The when, the where, maybe. Most certainly the how. Do you want to eat me?"

            "Yes."

            Will drags the cooler over into the carpeted part of the suite. He lets it rest beside the coffee table, between Hannibal and Eneas. Will sits on his heels, removes the lid. He remembers being a small boy surrounded by boats all the time. Dreaming of one day becoming a pirate, and searching for treasure. Opening chests such as these. He never would have dreamed he would one day open a chest full of hearts pulled fresh from warm bodies. And yet here he is, staring down at them. Isn't life a wonder.

            "I thought so." Eneas shifts forward, elbows resting on his knees. He watches Will but speaks to Hannibal. "I did wonder... about destiny. How much can I change once God has decided my fate? Is there any point in struggling?"

            Hannibal raises an eyebrow. "I would think that's the only reason God predetermines anything for us, Eneas. To watch us struggle."

            "Yes. Yes, I thought so too. That's why I did what I did today. When I looked at you, I conceived my end. And I will rearrange your stars on my way down."

            At that, Will looks up from the ruby-like hearts in the ice-chest. His gaze burns in emerald fire on Eneas, hair on the back of his neck and arms standing on end.

            "And you," Eneas says, returning Will's stare with quiet caution, "I remember seeing your face long ago, in that rag. When you were incarcerated at the asylum. And your eyes, they looked into the camera. So utterly human."

            Yes, he was. He was so human. A low growl rises deep from within Will's throat and he shifts forward slightly. He sees Eneas in arteries and blood vessels. Pumping, churning organs. The bass of a heartbeat in surround-sound. Stadium loud. Rushing in and out of his ears as when he was a fetus and could hear his mother's heartbeat. The thud of life.

            Eneas' voice sounds far away when he says: "They imprison humans. They cage animals."

            Will isn't in control of himself when he lunges. His body moved him on instinct and by the time he's aware of what he's done, he finds himself encased in bliss. He and Eneas and the entire armchair fall backwards in a tangle – Will's jaws clamped around Eneas' upper arm, so deep that he's drawn blood. He's missed his real target.

            Eneas maneuvers with agenda. He is beneath Will, wrestling him off with his free arm and using his seized arm to reach into his back pocket. Will's nails in him. He isn't letting go and Eneas can't reach whatever he's trying for. He abandons it and begins punching Will in the mouth with little agility. Their blood mixes between Will's teeth.

            Between one punch and the next, as Will grits down to bear it, it's suddenly gone. His vision is blurry but he can feel Hannibal near, and too his weight on the two of them. He's pinned Eneas' other arm down over his head. Will takes his chance to release the hold he has on the upper arm, and for one instant he can see Eneas' expression right before the second lunge.

            His eyes are wide, so wide, and in the very last sliver of light from the sun, the hazel looks like warm honey. His mouth caved in from pain, veins standing out on his temples. But somewhere in this adrenaline-fueled cocktail of emotions lies understanding.

            _All things do end_ , Will thinks.

            _I have rearranged your stars._

            _Stars._

            Will's eyes roll up just a bit when he bites down into Eneas' jugular. The sky outside is dark and the stars above Buenos Aires wink down. Will has blood in his eyes. He pushes his tongue forward to stop the gushing in his mouth. (Eneas is screaming.) Hannibal's hand is quick in and out of Will's pocket, switchblade in hand. He plunges it just below Eneas' collarbone. Drags it down all urgency and force. Will's hold is tight but Eneas is (screaming screaming) bucking against the two on him. Hannibal trusts Will to hold.

            Chest open. Hannibal grips exposed ribs and pries them further apart. (Eneas is hoarse.) Will's mouth is filled with blood. He doesn't swallow. Maybe it would ruin his appetite.

            Eneas is dying.

            Hannibal feels this and uses the switchblade once more inside Eneas' red red chest cavity. Will can hear the slicing of cavas, arteries, veins. Blood oozes over Hannibal's forearms, and now they're so thick and red and Will knows this is what he must have looked like so long ago as a surgeon.

            The heart is still thudding when Hannibal pulls it free of constraints. Will has pulled his teeth from Eneas' neck. He looks at his packmate and both are covered in blood and saliva and (Eneas has pissed himself) fluid. He puts the heart in Will's hand.

            "Hannibal," Will says. His jaw creaks, one canine is loose.

            Hannibal's nose bleeds freely. "Will," he says.

            Will's eyes begin to roll about in his head. He feels dizzy and thus sets the heart on the blood-soaked carpet, not trusting his hand to hold it steady. He closes his eyes and leans down into it, sore mouth open but biting anew into the bloody muscle. Will is aware when Hannibal leans down and bites into the other side, their lips brushing against each other with every nip and pull. Tearing and tugging on it, against each other, with each other, until every bit of it is gone and they lick their faces clean.

           

           

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are love.


	20. The Unyielding Grace

Regarding rest that night, Will and Hannibal get barely two hours.

            Pre-sleep: time spent in Alvear Art cleaning the blood off themselves. Tempted to use their mouths on the whole of each other. It somehow felt right. But Hannibal held enough of his human senses to stop them. Too much and it would make them sick, on top of the heart. They used the bathroom of marble and glass. Shed their blood-soaked clothes, and found in Eneas' suitcase some things that fit well enough just to get back to their own hotel.

            Eneas' bag was packed neatly. His car keys on the table. Inside one of the pockets sat his passport and a first-class ticket to New Delhi, India, set for the very next day. Will and Hannibal eyed each other over the ticket.

            _I looked at you and conceived my end._

_I will rearrange your stars on my way down._

            Will had come back to himself after the blood was washed from him but he felt a spike of indignation – and thus: his teeth bared slightly. Eneas Godoy thought he could get away from them.

            Hannibal tore the ticket in two. He said that even worms on a hook still wriggle.

            Post-sleep: after just two hours of unconsciousness in their wide bed at Palacio Duhau, Will wakes with the sun. They hadn't closed the blinds the night before and the dawnlight creeps across his face. By the time his eyes are open, he's aware that Hannibal is not currently in the bed with him. He can sense him nearby, though, and so there is no cause for worry. He reaches a tired hand over into Hannibal's side of the bed and the sheets there are still warm. Drags one of the pillows over to himself and inhales.

            Hannibal's bare scent is strongest and what lingers beneath is only the tiniest traces of blood and Eneas Godoy and dominance. Will smiles, his face buried completely in the pillow.

            From the other side of the room come soft voices, one of which is markedly Hannibal's. Will is comforted by this and only settles deeper in bed. After a minute, he hears their door close, and Hannibal's subsequent footsteps back into the center of the room, towards the bed.

            Over the pillow, Will sees Hannibal in his pajamas, bare-chested, with a wicker tray presumably handed to him by the room service waiter. Hannibal settles on the bed, back against the wall of pillows and headboard behind that. He has little room as Will is completely spread diagonal.

            Will finds that despite the near complete lack of sleep, he isn't as tired as he might have thought, and further the sweet smell of pastries and coffee lure him from any sleep-logged state he might have once inhabited. He sits up, coated in the rose dawn. Over the buildings in the east, shadowed, the gold sun peeks. Buenos Aires is an industrial city and so the sky is probably filled with chemicals that produce sunrises and sunsets so dynamic. But Will is captivated nonetheless. And he gives favor to destruction anyway. It is, all of it, beautiful.

            An assortment of _facturas_ filled with _dulce de leche_ , _crema pastelera_ and _dulce de membrillo_. Will and Hannibal drink the coffee, black, and switch cups for the sheer pleasure of tasting where the other has tasted. Hannibal takes a pastry dripping in _crema_ and sets it between Will's lips. Will does the same for Hannibal with one that is doused in powdered sugar. Between bites, Hannibal complains of cloying sweetness. Will only laughs and pushes more onto him.

            The sun is looming over the buildings completely by the time they are done. Hannibal says he shall have a headache from sugar rush. Will loves sugar rushes, and he grins with traces of _dulce de leche_ on his top lip. Hannibal leans over, sucks it away, kisses it away, eats it away.

*

Compromise – a thing present in most relationships Will has ever had, though he admittedly has not had many. And more often than not, though exalted as the cornerstone of any healthy relationship, compromise itself had always been the match to dynamite. Begrudging meetings in the middle. Grit teeth and bare it because your partner wants something different. You will get your turn next.

            Something at its core which is so frighteningly inhuman the old Will Graham had sought  out of humanity. Thankfully, no such cruelties are present in his current relationship. One being split into two bodies, as such, there are many perks. No compromise needed.

            After their languid breakfast in bed, the notion pops into their heads that they should enjoy Buenos Aires before heading back to Mar del Plata. The day is crisp, warm, though not without breeze. The salted sea in every breath of wind. Will's curly hair is all over his head in defiance of early grooming. Hannibal's button-up shirt is rolled to his elbows. Forearms so tanned. The city, the people, heave like a living animal around them, the very concrete they walk upon seems to breathe.

            The heavy scent of food from street vendors incites Hannibal to bemoan their earlier breakfast. Sugar-laden pastries. Will only laughs again, and takes Hannibal's hand in his. Laces their fingers. They fit together shockingly well. Will leans his head slightly to the right, and lets it rest on Hannibal's shoulder. He's mindful of his horns, but otherwise can hardly think straight. He has not felt such a likeness in a relationship before – what can he attribute this to? Fecundity or destiny, the mere accident of happenstance. Or stars. God? Gods? Who has blessed Will so? To rip him from a cocoon too small and place him in the waiting hands of a man who would dare to watch him grow?

            Hannibal leans closer to Will. They walk away from the bustling shops and carts, down into the Recoleta neighborhood. The sidewalks cracked, sprouting grass between. "You never felt such for your wife, Will? Not even at the beginning?" he asks.

            Will snorts as if Hannibal has made a poor joke.

            "I'm serious."

            How can he be? Oh, Hannibal has never seen Molly in actuality but their mind palaces have rooms that now overwhelmingly overlap. In a few such rooms, residing mainly on the second floor, west wing, Molly and Walter can be found there. Will has taken Hannibal to see the mediocrity he chose for himself. Punitive measures for not running away with Hannibal when he had the chance.

            He remembers their wedding day. When he looked at Molly and gave her his last name. When the priest asked Will:

            _Do you?_

            Will said, _I do._

            _I do hate myself. I do wish I had chosen differently. I do feel disgust and mourning in the wake of my own tragedy of which I am the playwright, the cast, the only audience member. For none have suffered at my own hands more than I, and there is no one to bear further witness. So I decline anyone else's ideals of happiness, as I have forced my own to be locked away. I feel neither love nor emersion. I know not what I'm doing nor how I have come to this place, this altar. But I do abhor myself for what I have done. Oh yes._

_I do._

            When Will looks up, he finds themselves in a graveyard behind a great white church. Obelisk before him, Doric columns surrounding the stone courtyard, raised marbled mausoleums. Hannibal looks at Will.

            "Do you regret your marriage?"

            Will smiles. He sounds like a psychiatrist again, Will's psychiatrist.

            "I have never stopped being that," Hannibal says, rubbing his thumb against Will's inner wrist.

            Will shakes his head. He does not – cannot – regret. He is so far past that now. The word almost sounds foreign. He supposes that if he were to ever see her again, he would kill her, though it would merely be instinct.

            "My instinct would probably kick in first, in such a case," Hannibal says. He touches warm stone of a grave marker. Carved black letters in which he runs his little finger.

            He's probably right. Will is wrought with the image of Hannibal snapping Molly's neck. The boy, Walter, would scream and he is old enough now that Hannibal and Will would not let him go. This shared daydream enamors them both to one another and they kiss in the courtyard. The church tower's shadow looms overhead.

*

In the evening, they check out of the Palacio Duhau. The sun has gone down and the road stretches out before them, the bloodened city behind. Will watches it diminish in the rearview mirror and he feels something watery in his gut.

            Stars wheeling above the Renault. The four hour drive somehow seems longer this time, and Will can't sleep through it. He's fidgety, agitated. There was something more sumptuous about Buenos Aires in comparison to its little cousin, their home, Mar del Plata. It is no great loss, and not a forever loss, but it is a loss all the same.

            "We can go back eventually," Hannibal says. Headlights illuminate his profile. The flash of his throat as he swallows. "Perhaps Jack will investigate, perhaps not, but if he does it will be in the Buenos Aires area. He has no reason to come to where we live."

            Will holds tight to his seatbelt. He looks at the passing countryside, darkened and surging with uncertainty.

            "We have been exceedingly careful with our own hunts in the city. They barely toe the lines of any normal number of people who would go missing in any given year. I know you love this place, Will."

            The night sky is clear, cloudless. What is that? The Big Dipper? Or the Little?

            "At this time, perhaps it would be best if we scale back. Remission, as it were, in preparation for any FBI dealings. Once enough time has passed, we will resume as normal."

            Who is he trying to calm?

            Will?

            Or himself?

            At that, Hannibal says nothing, but leaves one hand on the steering wheel and places the other tentatively on Will's cheek. Feels the rough stubble, the smoothness of the unmarred side of his face. Will leans into the touch until the hand cups his cheek completely. This is the unbandaged hand. It moves into Will's warm hair, lingers at the base of his bull's horn. Circles slowly traced on his scalp.

            Hannibal is asking him to keep a level head. To understand and endure. Though Will knows his heart, Hannibal seems to have need of cementing it. So he says, "Stay with me."

            Will looks up at him. His eyes spill stars. Where else would he go?

            It is late when they arrive back in front of their chalet. The street empty, all other houses darkened in sleep and night. Pulling into the driveway feels like relief. Hannibal gets out of the car first, grabs their bags from the trunk. Will steps out onto the driveway and follows his packmate up to their porch. The wind blows. It's cool, which hints at the end of a season. Will shivers once, clenches his fists, and follows Hannibal into the house.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of part two! Part three starts next update. Biggest thanks to all my reviewers, you guys keep me going. <3


	21. Date Night

Will lays beneath the wintertime duvet, though it is still just the beginning of autumn. He has bothered Hannibal for weeks to switch the summer and winter bedclothes out early.

            His body is changing.

            The falling temperatures have hit him harder than ever before. He compares this to when he was small and moving from the south to the north. Back then, he shivered and cursed whatever had possessed his father to remove them from tropical climate. Snows in the northeast ruined him. He missed the sun, the Gulf. Frozen days standing on the corner, waiting for the school bus, were nothing compared to this and it has barely broken a brisk chill out.

            Lately, Will has spent his time running up their hot water bill by taking long scorching showers or ruining Hannibal's dishes by pouring chili flakes into the boiling pots behind the older man's back. When Hannibal comes out from his own shower in the mornings, where once Will would feign sleep until breakfast was ready, he now sits up in bed and mewls loudly for Hannibal to lay with him longer so Will can take advantage of his lingering heat. Hannibal only indulges him most days.

            Sleeping with Will, in general, has become treacherous. His horns gleam strong and bright in every sunrise but though Hannibal is captivated by their beauty, he is not unaware of the likeness to having a porcupine in bed. He said as much aloud one morning and Will nearly bit him for the comparison.

            But Will's biting has become more reflex than response. After their weekend spent in Buenos Aires, Will's left canine fell out of his mouth. It had been completely loosened by Eneas Godoy's desperate punches, subsequently unsalvageable. Will mourned for days, sullen, nigh unresponsive. He often looked in the mirror, opened his mouth, and re-horrified himself each time. A cheek-scar and one tooth missing. How ugly was the universe determined to render him?

            That was before he woke one morning with a throbbing in his mouth. Hands clamped to his face to force pressure against the ache, he ran to the bathroom mirror. Removed his hands, opened his mouth.

            A small, white point of tooth peeking from his gum where once there had been an empty space.

            As weeks passed, the aching in his mouth turned to some strange need. In reflex, he bit into everything in the house: pillows, bedclothes, the lapels of Hannibal's suit jackets. Anything to ease the rupturing sensation in his gum. The small shard of tooth he was harboring grew and grew until it ultimately surpassed the length of the right canine. One morning Will looked into the mirror and found that he had grown a genuine fang.

            He stared for a long time, blank-faced. And then, so slowly, he smiled.

            Hannibal has made note: Will is becoming more and more asymmetrical. One horn like a bull, the other winding out to the right. One cheek sliced. One fang growing that Will has to mindfully keep behind his lower lip. And he is more stunning than ever.

            Presently, Will wakes on a Saturday morning. The night before ran into the early blue hours of dawn. Hannibal had opened up a young man in their basement, and told Will about the new sweetbread recipe he so wanted to try. Will listened to him list off the ingredients, and spices and he told Will it would allow for a vast amount of heat without ruining the dish. This so incited Will's hunger that he began to gnaw on their charge's right thigh, and ripping and shaking, until he severed the limb. In the morning, Hannibal is still in bed with him, and they are both open-eyed.

            Will smiles, runs a finger along Hannibal's shoulder, bicep, forearm, until he comes to hold the other's hand. Such heat in their palms pressed together. Will moves in closer, to place his head on Hannibal's chest, but feels something anchoring his head back. It's heavier than usual, despite how his horns have grown in the past few months. He glances upward, then sits upright.

            Feathers fall down over his head from the pillow that is gored through on his rebellious horn. In seconds, Hannibal is sitting up beside him, covered in feathers as well. They both look up towards the pillow, Will glaring, Hannibal trying desperately not to laugh.

*

They have come to call this 'date night':

            Primarily occurring on weekends, due to time constraints on weekday nights. And also because – mainly because – it is imprudent to show up to work with black eyes and bloody lips. Over the weekend, any minor damages have time to heal.

            On a night such as this, they park the Renault in the Irigoyen district or somewhere near Constitution Avenue. Not long after sundown. The air is chilled, the whole city is lit up in florescence. Will and Hannibal lean up against a half-darkened building.

            They are on Stand-By.

            People, from teens to young adults, litter the streets, gliding in and out of cafés, restaurants, clubs not unlike Éxodo . Hannibal is dressed in black, hands shoved into his overcoat pockets. Will, next to him, wears a thick red scarf wrapped around his neck, layered and pulled up to cover his mouth partially. His fang often presses into his lower lip, and though none of the patients at work have made mention of it, he worries the sight of it will unnerve others.

            They have only been on Stand-By for fifteen, twenty minutes at most, when two people walk by that catch their attention. They are suitable. Maybe mid-thirties. A woman, short and plump, walks in tandem with a tall man in a leather jacket. His height is two or three inches above Hannibal's own. They look at each other, laugh, hold hands as they walk briskly down the lamp-lit sidewalk. Will perks up in the wake of their scent, momentarily forgetting the cold, and he and Hannibal follow them with a wide enough berth that they do not notice.

            The two ahead of them walk up and down the streets for a while, Will and Hannibal a leisurely twenty feet behind. Finally, they slip into a restaurant which is emitting hearty scents of meat and spice. Hannibal and Will follow inside.

            It is small, quaint, painted in warm reds and oranges. The kitchen is open air, producing steam and heat. Will nearly melts. The dining room is moderately occupied, seven of fifteen tables full. He keeps an eye on their charges who are sitting at a table near the window that looks onto the street. Will and Hannibal sit nearer the kitchen where Will can bask in the warmth. He pulls his scarf down just a bit and when their waiter comes, Will instructs, in his way, Hannibal to order him _carbonada_ and empanadas. Hannibal himself never eats at restaurants.

            Hannibal eyes Will after the waiter goes. "You're going to spoil your actual dinner."

            Will grins widely, fang glimmering in the dim lighting. His appetite has been enormous lately. He is hardly ever satisfied.

            "I know," Hannibal says. He smirks, places his hand on the table over Will's. "You've been working me overtime."

            But Hannibal loves cooking. Surely it is no great labor.

            "There's a reason I'm not a professional chef, you know."

            Only because a restaurant with 'people' on the menu would not thrive.

            Hannibal grins now, matching Will's own. On nights such as this, they are both of them in very real danger of losing themselves completely in each other's eyes. From time to time it occurs to them to look over towards their charges' table. They are mid-meal and laugh and talk as Will and Hannibal do. These nights are not so unlike a double-date, Will thinks. He's been forced into a few of those in his past life. He finds that the way he and Hannibal do them now are so much more fun.

            Sometime after the _carbonada_ is naught but remnants in a bowl and there are only two empanadas left on the plate, and one currently in Will's mouth, their charges begin to leave. Hannibal places a fifty peso note on the table and urges Will along ahead of him. They give their charges a wide berth once more, but follow them next to a used book store two blocks down. The inside is strewn with white Christmas lights that hang from rafters and line high bookshelves. The man and woman jaunt to the romance section in the back of the store, while Hannibal leads Will to the poetry section. Will leans back against a shelf twice his height in a darkened corner where no one can see. Hannibal leans into him, one arm around his waist, the other hand holding a book open. Into Will's ear, and between nips at the pale skin of his neck, Hannibal reads:

            " _He wants to say 'I love you, nothing can hurt you',_

_But he thinks_

_This is a lie, so he says in the end,_

_'You're dead, nothing can hurt you'_

_Which seems to him_

_A more promising beginning, more true._ "

            Will swelters and turns his head back to press their lips together. He pulls on Hannibal by the lapels of his coat, collides the front planes of their bodies. Hannibal has, of late, become expert in navigating Will's mouth with the new addition of his fang. He maneuvers his tongue around it, against it, sometimes sucks it fervently, dragging his own mouth down to Will's lower lip afterward. By the time their charges walk towards the exit, Hannibal is sucking a dark mark into Will's throat, and Will – eyes half rolled into his skull – nearly misses them go by. Will straightens his clothes and before they leave the store, they buy the book of Louise Glück poems.

            On the street again, they follow the man and woman for a long walk. It's late, and they leave the small district for a sleepier borough a few blocks away. The streets are modest, lined with small houses. Poorly lit, as some of the streetlights aren't well-maintained. It suits Hannibal and Will just fine. They move more and more into the shadows as both their charges walk up a graveled driveway, the man with a key ring out. Here, then. Will and Hannibal will take them in their own house as soon as they open the door.

            When it does open, Will and Hannibal are at the side of the front yard shaded by a low-hanging tree's branches and leaves. Will's body is poised, his pupils slits. The man and woman step into the lit house and the woman comes down to one knee, embracing a small boy who runs up into her arms. Will stands back up straight, so startled that his eyes have returned to normal.

            "Your choice, Will," Hannibal says.

            Will watches them shut the door, can hear the boy's excited cries even from outside. After just a second longer, he turns on his heel back towards the street. Hannibal follows, then falls into step with him, and they smile at each other.

            They walk hand-in-hand back the way they came, winding streets, many blocks into the Irigoyen district. The Renault isn't far now. Will wants to go home and take a shower, blazing hot. He feels the heft of the book in his coat pocket and thinks the night wasn't a total loss.

            "Not a loss at all," Hannibal says, frees his hand from Will's grasp to tug lightly at a horn.

            When they round the corner, the scent hits them first. Then the sight: curly red hair in the lamplight. Hair unlike any other.

           

             

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because we all needed a little Hannigram making out against old poetry books. Tell me whatcha think!


	22. This Woman's Work

Freddie Lounds stands illuminated by lamplight. Thin legs encased in black stockings, coat collar pulled up around her neck. Her camera up in front of her face, flashing at the surrounding buildings, the cafés and clubs that fill with locals. She looks quite in her element, and strangely peaceful.

            After a few minutes, she turns around. A scream catches in her throat and she has time to click the shutters once. Only that and nothing more.

*

It takes nearly all of Hannibal's strength and agility to keep Will from killing Freddie in the street. Hannibal has Freddie in a vice grip under one arm, hand clamped over her mouth. She's kicking, struggling, and Hannibal barely notices. His other hand is in Will's mouth being torn into, but he yanks them both towards the Renault at the nearby alleyway. Freddie is still wriggling and to ease his workload, Hannibal knocks her head against the door of the car before tossing her limp body into the backseat, camera and all.

            Will claws to get at her, mind so fried by bloodlust that he can't think to simply open the car door. Hannibal takes his shoulders, slams Will into the passenger side door and presses his mouth to Will's. His lower lip is cut by the fang. But it takes the desired effect, and within the confines of a moment, Will calms marginally. Enough to no longer bite, but not enough to respond with any real discernible thought when Hannibal tells him, "We'll take her home. Don't worry. Everything is fine, Will."

            The drive home feels long. Will is nigh incapable of rational thought. Words blink in and out of his mind like flashing signs.

            _Die here._

_Die here._

_You'll die._

            He stares back over his seat to stare at Freddie, laying splayed out in the back. Streetlights through the windows pass over her body. Will's fingers tremor. How can she–

            _die_

            –be here?

            How could she possibly be here?

            Will feels something hot and wet behind his eyes. Pressure prickling. He closes them, whips around in his seat, and clings to his seatbelt for the rest of the ride. He doesn't look at Hannibal.

            When they finally arrive home, their street is dark. Will jumps out of the passenger side, shuts the door with only a little more force than necessary. He goes to the front door and lets himself in, leaving it open for Hannibal to carry Freddie in. Will can barely stand to look at her, limp and pale in his packmate's arms, and he cannot touch her yet lest he tear her in two.

            Hannibal walks through the living room, down the flight of stairs that winds into the basement. Will follows at length, footsteps light as if he is on a hunt. His body works against itself. Twitchings come and go, his pupils in turns blow wide and narrow to slits. Fists clench, unclench. He watches from the final step, cautious, as Hannibal dumps Freddie onto the cold, concrete floor. She lays near a metal heater built into the floor, and Hannibal laces her with heavy chain from a cabinet of retraining supplies nearby. Padlock.

            Hannibal stands from where he once knelt at her side. He considers her for a moment, then turns in the bright florescence to see his packmate standing so very still.

            "We can talk to her in the morning. She'll be out for a few hours at least."

            Will is shaken, confused. He can't form any sort of communication. Only looks at her, finally, long curls of red framing her delicate face. Then, a concrete thought:

            _I will tear the hair from your scalp, Freddie._

            Hannibal smiles at him. His hand is bleeding. "Anything you want," he says, coming to stand before Will. He places his bloody hand on Will's cheek. "For now, we must sleep."

            Will nods. He turns away and allows Hannibal to lead him upstairs.

*

Sleep has been fitful, at best. Will's dreams aren't dreams but rather him standing in rooms of his memory palace, which has come to be connected with Hannibal's. The last thing he remembers before waking is Athens, that which is now the courtyard to his palace. And the Mediterranean air. And the Parthenon in the distance, against starlit sky.

            When he wakes, it is to the familiar smell of pancakes.

            Hannibal often makes such on Sunday mornings and Will can tell by the scent that these are pumpkin and pecan. It almost lures him into a good mood. He yawns, scratches the base of a horn, and stumbles from bed in naught but his boxers. Down the stairs, following the heavy spiced scent. When he arrives in the kitchen, he finds himself staring at Freddie Lounds who is chained to her seat at their dining table.

            Hannibal looks up from the stove range. He gives Will a lingering gaze, then turns to see Freddie who is staring blankly at the more than half-naked man in the room.

            "We have a breakfast guest, Will," Hannibal says. He pours two cups of thick black coffee. "I didn't think it would be kind for us to eat and leave Ms. Lounds starving in the basement."

            Will glares at Hannibal. She deserves much more than starvation and none of what Will has in mind could ever be considered kind.

            Hannibal suppresses a smirk. He holds out the coffee mugs across the island. "Please sit, Will, and give this to Ms. Lounds. Breakfast will be ready shortly."

            Will is sullen but only has so much energy for disobedience before his morning coffee, so he does as he's told. He sits across from Freddie at the table, places her mug in front of her. Her hands have limited range of motion, chained as she is, but she is able to pull it closer. She is shaking. The morning light coming through the window hits them both, and though Will is positive he doesn't look his best, Freddie looks absolutely terrible. Makeup smudged, eyes heavy with bags, hair in a tizzy. Will eyes her over his mug, sips slowly.

            From the island, flipping with a metal spatula, Hannibal says, "We've been reading your website this whole time, Ms. Lounds. You've become quite popular, haven't you?"

            Freddie, for all of her seeming, looks terrified. Will likes the way it looks on her. She glances from both of them, maybe wondering if she should answer. Finally, she clears her throat, and says, "Yes, I... I've done well, I think. It's still a small operation. Me."

            Will can remember it like it was yesterday: washing dishes in this kitchen, hearing Hannibal read an article about them. Will had every intention, then, of letting Freddie Lounds live a long and prosperous life. She never should have come here. Will's hands tighten around the warm mug. She never should have left Baltimore.

            Will only realizes he's been staring madly at Freddie, unblinking, when Hannibal sets plates stacked high with pancakes in front of them. Will looks down, encased by the scent. His shoulder muscles loosen just a bit. Hannibal sits between them, silhouetted by the morning light behind him. Will begins to eat voraciously, for the moment no longer caring to look at her.

            "So," Hannibal says after his first bite, "what brings you here?"

            Will pours himself a glass of orange juice from the pitcher on the table. Slurps it heavily.

            Freddie takes a small, delicate bite. "I... well, I," her voice in tremors, "I was following a lead. I've been following leads ever since you two... left. None of them took me anywhere. I didn't expect..." She glances up at Will. "I didn't expect this one to be any different."

            "Lying," Hannibal says easily. He smiles at her. "Lying isn't allowed, Ms. Lounds."

            Freddie's eyes are wide for only a second. She composes herself, sips from her coffee. "I meant," she says, "I only meant that I didn't expect it at first. But I'd heard about the festival in Buenos Aires, the display of bodies. It sounded so like you... then I flew there to talk to the local police..." Her eyes become distant as she remembers. Brows furrow in remnants of frustration. She sounds almost like herself again. "But they all spoke Spanish and I'm, well, marginal at best. When I was about to just go home, I'd heard about another murder, one that happened in a nearby hotel. The only thing I could make out was that he was some art guy from Mar del Plata. And so..."

            "Here you are," Hannibal says.

            "Here I am," Freddie says. She looks at Will hesitatingly, then turns to Hannibal. "Listen... let me go. If you let me go, I–"

            "Miss," Will growls. He has finished his entire plate, nothing but streaks of maple syrup across the plate and fork. His coffee mug empty. The word cannot mean to Freddie what it means to both he and Hannibal. But his tone is clear. He means no.

            Freddie's hair whips with how fast she turns to him. Her eyes wide as worlds. Lips trembling, then she licks them. Stills. Says, "Will. What's happened to you?"

            Will says, "Hannibal."

            It's true enough.

            Freddie looks as if it takes all her strength to tear her gaze from him. She nods further down the dining table, just a few inches from her reach. Her camera. "Look, see, I was only taking pictures of the city, but before you took me, I think I snapped a picture of you too. Delete it. Delete all of them, everything. I'll go back to the States, I won't tell anyone anything. More than that, I'll tell Jack Crawford I didn't find anything at all."

            "Lying," Hannibal says.

            "I swear it!" Her eyes are wide, gloriously desperate. "I swear to God. He, Jack, he knows I'm here."

            Hannibal turns completely to look at her. His eyes search hers.

            "I'm not lying," she says, staring back at him. "Look at me and see. He knows, I told him, I told him about the MHDO. You read about them, right? They catalogued the festival killing in Buenos Aires as _your_ work. They told me, and I told Jack, and he told me to go to hell. But I came here. I told him I was coming. If I go missing, what will Jack think?"

            The way Hannibal leans back, wipes his hands on the napkin, Will knows she isn't lying. He sighs and reaches for her camera. It whirs, turns on, and Will clicks through the photos idly. Cafés. People walking down darkened streets. The docks.

            Freddie nods at him. "Delete them all, Will. Trash the camera if you want."

            Will is considering it. He comes upon the last picture taken – indeed, it is of he and Hannibal, and–

            And–

            Will's fingers tremble, the camera rocking with them.

            And–

            Hannibal turns to him. "Will?"

            Will looks at the photo of himself. Green eyes, black curly hair tousled by the wind. Scarf around his neck. Scar vivid under lamplight. But he cannot see his horns.

            "Will–"

            There is a veritable stream of emotions that runs through Will in the course of a second. Anger, disbelief and anguish are not the least of them. But when they merge, they manifest themselves into the simple physical act of laughter. Raw, raucous, strained. Will's eyes are wet as he laughs, they are red-ringed and wide. He takes one trembling hand to his face, his hair, his bull's horn. Tugs on it firmly. He can feel it in his hand as well as he can feel the camera in his other.

            Ah! The eyes of lesser creatures. Now Will understands why no one has ever made mention of them. Why they have not frightened children in the street as he once thought they would. Why Sofi and Julieta and even Tomas never so much as glanced at them.

            Is this what they see? This photograph of a human? Is this what they think Will is?

            He looks up at Freddie, his eyes impossibly wide, tears streaming down his face as he sobs laughter. Her face is ghost-white. Will's thoughts are booming in his head, a deafening cyclone that causes even Hannibal to squint.

            _A **human** , am I?_

_A human **indeed**._

            Will rears back and pitches the camera straight into her face.

*

In their bedroom upstairs, Will lays face-down in the covers. He has wrapped all of them around himself and finds warmth as he can. Part of him would like to stay right where he is forever. He knows it is impossible, however, and he also knows there's a good chance Hannibal might be a bit peeved at him for storming upstairs like some emotional teenager. That had been over two hours ago.

            Will has heard from downstairs the dishes clanking, the water running, and the sound of one of their dining chairs dragging across the linoleum. Will knows Hannibal would never risk scuffing the flooring in any normal case. He thinks his packmate must be distracted, possibly even disquieted at Will's display downstairs.

            He buries his face in the sheets and pillows. He feels like a child, red-faced and too embarrassed to leave his bed. He's had time to calm, to rub himself in Hannibal's side of the bed, roll in his packmate's scent. He sighs. It would be better to have the real thing with him, however.

            Will slides from between the sheets and duvet, bare feet on the floor. He is still clad in simple boxers, and walks to the door of their bedroom. The hallway is dark and before he takes his foot to the first stair, he sees Hannibal standing halfway up on the staircase. He looks up at Will. One hand is behind his back, the other lolls at his side.

            "Hannibal," Will says, voice soft. He pushes his unruly bangs back with one hand, fidgets. He wants to say sorry.

            Hannibal's smile is white in the dark. He takes another step upward. "Sorry? There's no need for it."

            Will shrugs. He wonders how Freddie's face is.

            "She'll live."

            Will isn't sure how he feels about that but his eyes are drawn more and more to the hand Hannibal holds behind his back as he ascends. Finally he comes to stand on level with Will and light from the bedroom passes between them, illuminating half of their bodies. Will feels a chill.

            Hannibal says, "I thought you could use some cheering up." He reveals what has been hidden: a bouquet of twelve long-stemmed roses, lined with thorns. The petals have been picked off. Wrapped around the delicate leaves, instead, are long thatches of curly red hair.

            Will stares at them as Hannibal pushes the bouquet into Will's grasp.

            Will's mind has gone blank.

            Hannibal chuckles softly. "Am I to guess they're to your liking, Will?"

            Will nods numbly.

            "Ms. Lounds was not pleased about this. But I–"

            Will wraps his arm around Hannibal's neck and pulls him down until their mouths lock. His body has forgotten cold and suddenly he is ablaze, set by the match of his roses. He is scalded. He kisses Hannibal but it isn't enough. He pulls at Hannibal, presses their bodies together until Will is pinned up against the hallway wall but it isn't enough. He bites Hannibal's lip, Hannibal sucks his fang, but it isn't enough. The temperature rises exponentially. A degree so high it will kill them all.

            A degree so, so high.

            Will presses his tongue in a firm lick across Hannibal's bottom lip. He growls low in his throat, constant, nearly a purr, and when he breaks their kiss, he looks up at Hannibal through heavy forest eyes. He takes Hannibal's hand in his, places it on the band of Will's boxers and snaps them. Will's upper lip rises, he licks his own fang.  Hannibal is watching his every move as one entranced. Will smiles, fang out, and removes himself from between the wall and Hannibal. He walks towards their bedroom, bouquet swinging in his hand. In the threshold, he looks back over his shoulder.

            "Hannibal," he says, and motions for Hannibal to follow.

            Hannibal does as he's told.

           

           

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... you can probably tell what'll be happening in the next chapter. Rating goes up, people. 
> 
> (Saturday surprise update brought to you by the sweet, enthusiastic comments I've received.)


	23. The Temple of Aphrodite

Hannibal's robe and shirt lay on the floor, cast off to the right of the bed. Through half-open blinds, thin bars of sunlight stripe both Hannibal and Will's bare torsos in gold. The pillows and duvet shoved off to random corners of the bed. The analog clock on the nightstand says 10:58 AM, and it blinks continuously as Hannibal cups Will's hipbone, moving his fingers slowly along the band of his boxers.

            Their mouths drip wet with each other's saliva. Will is all teeth, head turned to his right, opening his mouth to Hannibal who lies on his side. His hands on Hannibal's neck in tremors. His feet in the sheets, toes curling and crinkling them, releasing, curling again. Chest rising and falling, nigh hyperventilating. He shivers as if someone were shaking him by the shoulders and, distantly, he is endlessly annoyed that, one, they are both still half dressed and, two, Hannibal's body is perfectly still and composed.

            Hannibal hears his packmate's annoyance as if through stereo. He grins into their kiss, laughs and pulls his mouth away. Will moans pitifully in response.

            Hannibal nips Will's earlobe. "What is your hurry?"

            Will might possibly die of heatstroke if Hannibal does not speed things up.

            "I assure you that will not happen."

            Ignoring that statement, Will releases his hold on Hannibal and moves his hands down to his boxers, intent on sliding them off. Hannibal's hands are on him in a second, a death grip on his wrists.

            "Don't you dare," Hannibal says into his ear. Will struggles, useless, and feels that unyielding strength. "Haven't you ever heard of savoring, Will?"

            Will grunts. He'd much rather be devoured than savored.

            "I can, and will, do both."

            Hannibal transfers Will's wrists from one of his hands to the other and pins them deftly above the younger man's horns, against the mattress. In one motion, Hannibal moves from Will's side to hovering over him, on his knees. He smiles. Will doesn't want to smile – demands currently being unmet as they are – but he can't help it. It is second nature.

            All of it. When Hannibal leans into Will, when their mouths come together again, it feels like instinct. His legs move to either side of Hannibal's hips and with a bit of stretching, he manages to lock ankles around him. He's struggling still against the hold on his wrists. Pulling his legs in because he wants more skin-to-skin contact. Growling within the kiss. Hannibal has become accustomed to working around and over Will's fang but Will has not learned it yet. As such, he is fast becoming unruly and Hannibal's top lip bleeds.

            Hannibal smiles, licks the blood from his teeth and moves his mouth to Will's throat. He satiates Will just a bit by rocking forward, pressing the front planes of their bodies together which produces such a heated response in Will that he feels his insides are melting. He groans, head lolling back against fabric-softened sheets. Hannibal's tongue and teeth at his neck. Marking. Sucking.

            Will bucks his hips up lightly. Hannibal allows for it. The fabric of Will's boxers slide against Hannibal's pajamas and it's maddening and Will shifts his legs to try pulling down Hannibal's pants. He hasn't even gotten anywhere but Hannibal re-slams Will's wrists into the mattress and moves his own legs wider, thereby parting Will's and stripping him of any control.

            "What did I tell you?" Hannibal murmurs into Will's throat.

            "Hannibal," Will whines.

            "Yes, Will."

            "Miss!"

            "You cannot miss what you haven't had yet."

            Will most certainly can. He misses it like hell.

            Hannibal doesn't respond to this; instead, he takes his mouth to Will's collarbone. Drags the points of his teeth along the bone (Will shudders) and moves lower, to the right, to capture Will's nipple with his whole mouth (Will cries out) and spends a little eternity suckling before moving to the left (whimpering) and doing the same there.

            Finally, as he moves lower, he releases his hold on Will's wrists with an unspoken warning that if Will becomes rowdy once more, he will have to endure Hannibal starting all over again.

            Hannibal's hands, smooth and thick, linger on Will's sides, trailing fingertips down.

            (thin whine)

            Kissing, fully, down his midsection and idling at his navel. Dipping tongue in, sinking teeth around it, as his hands move to Will's hipbones and grip them with sure force.

            ("H-Hannibal")

            There is a soft, thin line of black hair that trails from navel to the top of his boxers. Hannibal kisses, licks, wetting it, distracting from his own hands tugging boxers down creamy hips.

            Will dares not move.

            Only this: he watches as Hannibal lifts up, dragging the item of clothing down Will's thighs and allows for Will's participation in simply lifting his legs – boxers off, tossed to the floor. Will's arms, wrists, are where Hannibal left them, angled above his horns on the mattress. Will is bleary, pink, maybe red, a furnace come to life inside him. Breathing labored, emitting, from time to time, long whines unbid.

            Hannibal sits back on his heels. He has one of Will's legs hooked over his shoulder, the other lies to the side, bent open. Hannibal stares for a long moment, and he's red too. Eyes distant, as one would look upward at the Milky Way. Galaxies. The universe. Searching, endlessly, for God.

            Then, a shift in his gaze. Knowingness and humility. Hannibal has found Him.

            So he lowers, as any worshipper to a deity, and (Will's mouth and eyes open) takes all of Will into his mouth in one fell motion.

            Will is–

            Will can't–

            "Haaan-ni–"

            Hannibal's mouth is searing, and wet, and his onslaught relentless. The pull of his lips, the flat of his tongue on the underside, the light scrape of pointed teeth – Will clenches his fists into the mattress, his back arches impossibly, and he's trying–

            Hannibal flips his tongue and Will nearly shrieks.

            –trying not to move.

            His legs quake, the one over Hannibal's shoulder most of all for its full contact with Hannibal. Every fingertip twitching. He dare not look down, no, he can't see it or something will burst in him and it's too much already, so quick and deft–

            Hannibal curls his tongue and saliva is dripping down Will in torrents, gushes, streaming; Will is near tears.

            –and Hannibal seems to understand that he's pushing Will's limits so he slows. A long drag upward, with less pressure, and Will's body loosens, releases a stuttered sigh in response. His body is molten, bubbling. Hannibal continues with Will carefully, and his hand dips into the saliva that has pooled over Will's groin. It's coated, slick, and leisurely he curls his pointer finger until it's lodged completely inside Will.

            Will bites his lip to bleeding.

            Hannibal makes as if he takes no notice of Will's arching and cries, and he moves his other hand in time with his mouth, and the finger inside Will falls into step as well, and

            Will

            can't

            see.

            His eyes are back in his head and he's walking in another world when Hannibal adds a second finger to the first. There is slight discomfort–

            Hannibal deep-throats.

            Will keens in a note so high, he probably could not manage such in any other situation. Hannibal takes this oppourtunity to add a third finger.

            And Will is sorry but he can't help movement now, no, not as he bucks his hips upwards, nor as his hands scramble to clutch the bed sheets, pillows, headboard, anything at all. Hannibal doesn't seem to mind this, but angles his elbow to hold Will's hips down. And he moves forward, shoulder pressing Will's hiked leg back against his stomach, opening Will further. The discomfort of fingers moving, stretching, and the loving enclosure of Hannibal's mouth keep Will in a pink-misted limbo of which Hannibal is overseer and he brings Will up and down as if on a string, a plaything, or instrument, ah, Hannibal's always been good at eliciting sound.

            Will lays against the bed, stretched out, body exhausted and threatening to blister. He does not know cold. Cold exists elsewhere. He is burning.

            Then–

            Slowly.

            Slowly, it goes away. Lingering, inch by inch, Hannibal takes his mouth from Will, and his fingers too. Before Will can say or think anything, his mouth is covered by Hannibal's, and he tastes himself fully. Their tongues together. As if they'd been apart for years. Hannibal is moving over him, and Will hears the nightstand drawer open, and he can feel Hannibal's pajama pants finally slip down his legs. When their bare legs intertwine, Will jolts from bliss.

            He opens his eyes slightly, sight bleary with tears. Hannibal has, in his hand, the same vial of almond oil he used on Will's horns. Their kiss pauses while Hannibal flips it open and spills the remaining oil onto his hand which moves forward to coat Will between his legs and Hannibal's own flushed flesh.

            Will whines languidly.

            His mind is fried.

            And he can't think or beg or bargain for faster, can only stare at Hannibal's three fingers as they return to him. Re-stretch. Curled. Will's head falls back, and with it, Hannibal places his mouth into the exposed skin of his throat.

            "Will," he says, voice percolating with dreamy hunger, "this is going to hurt."

            Will smiles, fang glistening with saliva.

            The fingers are once again removed and Will's body relaxes for their loss – replacement of Hannibal himself, and–

            Pressure, and–

            Hannibal leans in. Constant, steady.

            Will emits a lost sound, one that is wind whisking through naked branches, and his back arches until he is once again skin to skin with the man above him and he feels the sear and his temperature is sun-hot.

            Hannibal is whispering something in his ear. Is it soothing? Is it encouragement?

            He can't hear it, it's too–

            _Will._

            Will opens his tear-streaked eyes and turns to see Hannibal's mouth unmoving.

            _Will._

            Hannibal's expression is somewhere between a grin and pure wonder, elation, or disbelief, and watches Will steadily as he pushes in complete, at last, his hips flush against Will's thighs. And Will's body is once again tight as violin string, veins standing out on his neck and forearms as he grips the sheets. His breathing catastrophic. And there's no time to adjust, Hannibal does not allow for it, he rises up on his elbows and drags himself out inch by inch before shoving forward once more. And once more. And once more.

            Will is crying out and the bed sheets aren't enough; he moves his hands to grip his own dark locks which are drenched in sweat. Tugs, wrenches. He looks into the dusky eyes above him and feels the weight of eternity, feels the driving force of a war god, and nearly loses himself in its ferocity.

            His fingers clench, ache, tearing at his hair.

            Ah, but.

            They release just a bit, shaking. Hannibal moves his hips in such a way and Will clenches, ears ringing. Will moves his fingers upward into his thick hair and finds the base of both horns, one curved beautifully, one wickedly crooked. Will grips hard as anything and when Hannibal pushes in again (long so slow so sweet and electricityfrictionscorch) Will shakily moves his hands upward along his horns in time with Hannibal.

            The result is exaltation.

            Will's eyes threaten to roll back but he's insistent that he take in Hannibal's expression which is nothing short of bare-boned love. He watches Will's hands, his horns, his moss eyes, and the current of power between them shifts violently, in such a sudden surge that Will feels he might rupture with it. He manages an open-mouthed grin even through the pain, brought on by Hannibal's sea foam stare.

            Aphrodite is beneath him, regaled in desire, crowned in lust and she spills love from her mouth, she drools obsession.

            Hannibal watches and the pace is set by Will, as he moves his hands so does Hannibal move his whole body, so infinite is his devotion that he does not make a move unwarranted by Will. And he can hear Will, and Will can hear Hannibal, in orchestra-fashion, no longer the static-lined voice over from radio, no, in his head is an open-air arena and he can hear Hannibal's thoughts as if he were speaking:

            _Anything, Will._

_Anything forever._

_Anything always._

_Yours._

_Yours absolute._

_Just only ever yours._

            Will jerks his hips up to meet Hannibal's incoming thrust and so deep is the hurt so deep is the sugar.

            His grip tightens at the top of his rebellious horn, surges at the base of his bull's horn. His leg over Hannibal's shoulder bounces in time. The sun-stripes from the window cover Hannibal's back in gold. Hannibal's thoughts are disjointed, scrambled, his actions only responses to Will's inner demands which he can feel through the web of their bond, spider-like in precision as each strand vibrates, as Will drips oil, and Hannibal is leaking, leaking, leaking.

            In some sudden realization, he takes his hand to Will between their bodies and strokes him in time with all of their movements, because he is– he is going to–

            Will grins madly, eyes clear as emeralds. The pain is–

            _Hannibal, how violent is your love?_

            –erratic, and–

            _Hannibal, do you know who reigns in our bed?_

            –wet, soaking, goddess, Hannibal is going to–

            _Do you know?_

            –he's going to–

            _It is me._

            –come.

            And he does, in torrents, whole body surging forward, rocketing a pain inside Will so intense that nothing had prepared him for, and at the height of Hannibal's bliss, as he's throbbing into Will, he says at Will's ear so simple and exhausted, "Sweetheart."

            Like tea cups brimming with liquid: Hannibal jolts Will and Will spills messily between them, producing a long sob, his legs spreading wider and twitching, and his body clenches around Hannibal, forcing a raw sound out of him in response.

            It takes a long moment. When Will comes down, it is with the softness of a feather on sea breeze. He resettles back into his body, fingertips twitching mildly. Breath returning where once he'd held it. His face is streaked with tears and saliva and sweat and blood. Hannibal lays on top of him, quietly inside him, their stomachs glued together. And their breathing soft. Their eyes open, Will's on the ceiling, Hannibal's on the bedroom window. And neither can shake the feeling that, after having returned to themselves, they did not return alone.

           

           

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes.


	24. The Open Seas and Shore

The sun seems to set earlier and earlier each day. It is near 5:30 PM when orange-red light enters through the kitchen window, bathing the white-painted room in warm colors. Will is there only for a moment, before turning once again down into the staircase that leads to the basement. He is warm from the shower and freshly dressed in black slacks and button-up shirt. Cuffs rolled to elbows. Hair brushed back, away from the countless marks on his neck which were made during love. His shoes click against polished wood as he leaves the light above and comes down to the basement.

            On the concrete floor, Hannibal waits for him, similarly dressed and, too, fresh from the shower. His skin is flushed from heat. He holds a hand out to Will, who takes it easily, as he comes from the final step.

            Across the room, chained still to her dining chair, which in turn is chained to the heater, is Freddie Lounds. Her face is mottled black and blue and bloody from her nose, which is now crooked. Will supposes that's where he threw her camera. Her long hair is all wrapped around Will's roses, in a waterless vase on his dresser upstairs. Her scalp is raw, bloody, some small patches where the roots still connect. She wheezes, deep and even, and for a moment it is the only sound in the room.

            "Ms. Lounds," Hannibal says, still holding Will's hand. "It's time to wake up, Ms. Lounds."

            She jolts, head lolling to the other side. Her eyes are blackened to close, but one, just one, manages to open and from it tears pour.

            "W-Will," she says.

            Will's green eyes are crystal clear, and burning inside. He lets his hand slip from Hannibal's and strides across the room with such quickness that Freddie's feet scramble against the concrete floor, as if she could escape into the chair, the wall, the pipes.

            Before her, he comes down on one knee. Smiles, and raises an eyebrow.

            "I-If I offended you," she begins, "if I did, I don't know, but I'm sorry. Listen, I can help you guys. Come on, you know. You know I have to go or else Jack–"

            "Hannibal," Will calls.

            Hannibal's footsteps echo and his proximity now is a few feet behind Will, though Will does not turn to see him. He keeps his eyes on Freddie, who does not know where to look. She shivers like an autumn leaf in free-fall.

            "Ms. Lounds," Hannibal's voice from behind. "Your eyes are nearly shut, and useless to you now. It's all right. You don't need them. Seeing, truly seeing, is knowing, and you cannot know what bears itself before you."

            "Pl-please–"

            "Do you remember Saul, Ms. Lounds? The scales on his eyes kept him from seeing, from knowing. When Ananias laid hands on him, the scales fell. Do you know what the scales represent?"

            "I... I..."

            Hannibal walks forward, and places a hand on Freddie's bare head. She tremors from his touch, as he tenderly moves his hand down the curve of her skull, and to the back of her cold neck.

            He clenches, holds her still.

            "Fear," he whispers.

            Will uses his kneeling position to propel himself with such force onto Freddie, his open mouth connecting first with her upper lip and cheek and she screams and rocks violently in the chair while Hannibal keeps firm grip of her neck, and Will's whole body is surging into her, jaws opening and closing and ripping and tearing.

            Freddie is screaming.

            "Do you know a demon when you see one, Ms. Lounds?"

            Freddie is sobbing.

            "What about a god?"

            Freddie is dead.

*

The analog clock on the nightstand blinks 3:12 AM when Will wakes. As a result, Hannibal, too, wakes.

            This change is permanent.

            Neither can sleep when the other is awake. It is a sensation near catapulting and Hannibal's eyes open only seconds after Will's. He looks to his right to find Will staring up at the ceiling. In the sliver of moonlight coming through the window, Hannibal sees only the gleam of horns, and Will's soft profile. Lips dabbed with the smallest bit of saliva.

            Hannibal turns on his side and takes Will into his arms, which Will is all too agreeable to. Hannibal sighs into unruly curls. _You're worried about Jack Crawford._

            _Yes._ Will places his mouth to Hannibal's chest hair. _Freddie's missing and as much as Jack may hate her, he will take that to mean she found what she was looking for._

            _I imagine Jack must have bigger worries now than us, halfway across the world._ Hannibal smiles briefly. _Who've done him a favor, really._

            Will snorts. _Jack won't see it that way._

            The hollow of their minds quiets for a bit, as Hannibal kisses the rebellious horn in front of him. Will shifts closer. And Hannibal thinks, _What do you want to do, Will?_

            Will's answer is immediate: _I don't want to leave this place._ He grips Hannibal's upper arms tight enough to leave bruises _. I don't know what it is. But this place... feels like home, even after just ten months. It's strange. But I love it. And if we do ever leave, I don't want it to be because of Jack Crawford. I won't live this life that way. I'm not scared of him._

            _Nor am I._ Hannibal licks the base of the horn and feels Will's shiver throughout his own body. _If Jack comes, we'll kill him._

            _Anyone from the FBI that sets foot here._ Will continues to squeeze. He seems now to be thinking to himself more than communicating with Hannibal. Squeezes until Hannibal grunts. _Jack, Alana. Just like Freddie. Our worlds were severed months ago. I am no longer Will Graham, not the one they knew._

            The thought forces Will to pause. He looks up at Hannibal, wide eyed in the dark, and in this way he looks as pure and unknown as the day he washed out of the Atlantic.

            _I am not Will Graham_ , he thinks. "Hannibal," _what am I?_

            Hannibal's gaze is steady. _Strange that I'd ever think this... but Frederick was right all along. There is not yet a name for what you are._

            Will's round eyes soften. He smiles then and leans forward to place their mouths together. His grip on Hannibal's arms releases and he moves his hands to Hannibal's chest where fingers curl into chest hair. Will slides the front plane of his body against his packmate's.

            _Fuck the doubt from me_ , he thinks.

            Hannibal's hands are already beneath the band of Will's boxers. Already gripping and kneading at the backs of Will's thighs. The boxers slide down to knees. When Freddie was dead, her face in ribbons hanging from her sleek skull, Hannibal had taken Will again for the sight of him in the reporter's blood was too much. And Will had demanded it again while her heart was on the stove, and over dinner Hannibal told Will he was the cause for its over-doneness. And again when they fell to bed.

            Hannibal places two saliva-dripping fingers into Will. His tongue is in Will's mouth and he thinks, _You are going to hurt yourself with your own avarice, Will._

            _Yes._ Will is groaning, his head lolling back and he's pressing himself down onto Hannibal's fingers with fiery insistence. _I want this hurt._

            _You're going to exhaust me._ Hannibal trails his mouth down to the hollow of Will's throat. His entire neck is black and blue from love.

            _Good._

            _You're going to exhaust yourself._

            Hannibal is inside him and the stretch and the heat rips a desire-ruined laugh from Will.

            _Never. Whatever I am, I am ceaseless._

*

Throughout the next week, they try to adjust. The weight of their bond is both overwhelming and comforting, a constant rushing that is not so unlike open seas upon shore. Will is not immune to the irony: Hannibal has been inside him, and since that first time, Hannibal is now always inside him, and Will too stands in the hallways of his packmate's mind as if it were his own. Their mind palaces no longer employ little walkways and tunnels into each other. They are one and the same.

            Will keeps Athens as their courtyard. Hannibal fills their rooms with paintings hundreds of years old. And the sounds of their lovemaking echo through vast corridors on loop, never-ending. A pained sigh from Will's lips. The toppling-over-the-edge staccato grunt from Hannibal.

            _Sweetheart._

            This closeness is both a blessing and a curse, as now Will uses it to both entertain himself and antagonize Hannibal in one fell swoop. During their days at the psychiatry practice, when Will is sitting lonely at his desk, he will use his connection with Hannibal to overhear his conversations with patients. Gauche, though he wouldn't have it any other way. He lingers in the archways of their palace and listens to Julieta bewail her new life without her husband and her attempts at dating. Or Tomas' issues with being left alone. He craves attention every waking second. And too, Tomas says, even in his dreams. Especially in his dreams.

            Hannibal allows this, in truth can do nothing to stop it, but when the patient leaves and there is a lull between them, he comes out to the waiting room. Will gives him an uneasy smile akin to something a child would give before an imminent lecture. Hannibal's lectures come in the form of kissing, biting, pushing two fingers into him, and leaving.

            Will does not need to feign any anger or indignation at this, it is real and raw, but he takes his punishments in stride. When the office door closes, where once he felt the thud of severance, now he feels Hannibal's thoughts ongoing, through wood and plaster, and in exchange for that he would take a thousand punishments, a thousand thousand thousand.

            When Saturday morning comes around, Hannibal is in the shower and Will lays in bed, sleep-logged and bleary-eyed but unable to sleep when his packmate does not. Will grumbles, rolls in the sheets, until finally he hears the taps move in the next room, the water shut off. In a few moments, Hannibal emerges bathed in steam, hair gloriously pasted to his forehead. He holds a towel to the side of his neck.

            Will stretches until his entire torso is free of the duvet. Arms over his head, resting on crisp pillows. He is dressed in roselight from the window, and too, his and Hannibal's come and saliva from the previous night. There is a cerise bite mark on his shoulder which came coupled with a particularly rough shove from Hannibal.

            Will looks at Hannibal now and licks his lips.

            Hannibal's mouth quirks. _You are absolutely filthy._

            _I am absolutely filthy._ Will's legs move the duvet, kicking it entirely from the bed. _So come here._

           

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And no, that is not the hailing of another chapter-long sexfest. *gets booed* Yeah, yeah. Anyway, let me know your thoughts; your comments keep me living!


	25. Post Blue

After love, Hannibal's stomach is once again coated in come, and though Will entertains him vastly by removing the majority of it with his tongue, Hannibal does insist on showering again, and does so with Will in tow.

            A breakfast of kidney and sage sausage, eggs and French toast follows. Over the table, Hannibal asks Will what he would like to do today. Will answers and that is how they come here, to Playa Varesse at just before 11 AM. The cold has long since driven tourists away and even locals rarely venture out to the cold wet sand, the lapping waves that dreary beneath a cloud-ridden sky. Everything beyond the sand is grey, choppy. Will would not himself want to be here, more susceptible to the cold now than ever, but his inner furnace is freshly blazoned; he stands just south of the rushing sea foam beside his packmate.

            _I'm glad your body temperature is beginning to regulate again, Will. You had me worried._

            Will smiles brightly and turns his head to look at Hannibal. The wind whips tufts of their hair. _It isn't regulating by itself_ , he thinks.

            Hannibal looks at him.

            Will's smile widens until his fang is fully bared.  He nudges Hannibal and laughs, echoing and raw as the ocean. _As long as you keep this up, I believe I won't have to throw chili flakes into your dishes anymore._

_Thank goodness for that._ Hannibal smiles and leans slightly until his forehead connects with Will's, their soft skin warm against each other. Will's dark hair curling around Hannibal's ashen locks.

            _Hey._ Will pulls away slightly, looking up into Hannibal's eyes with bright excitement. _Let's test something._

*

At midday, the Irigoyen district is nigh deserted. The sky continues to be overcast, the sun blanketed thickly by curtains of clouds. Seagulls soar overhead, their calls echoing with the roar of the water down by the docks. The nightclubs are darkened, sleeping. The cafés stand open, patrons in the windows drinking lattes and hot milk with cinnamon.

            Will stands on the sidewalk. The air is thick with salt and coffee. He closes his eyes, breathes in. Within the past week, his and Hannibal's scents have mixed completely, merging into one that is wholly unique and blessedly their own. He can smell it in the air and knows Hannibal is just a block away, south. Will opens his eyes, smiles, and runs north.

            The sidewalks are sparsely populated, like the roads. A van here, a cop car there. A gaggle of teen truants on the other side of the street. Will can jog at a leisurely pace without worrying about running over anyone. He rounds a corner, hand grasping briefly a young thin tree's trunk before swinging around it and running down the street to his left. Hannibal's scent is thin, but his thoughts are brightly ringing:

            _I can still hear you, Will. Go further._

            It's soft, but easily audible. Will's grin is bright. He loves it. He has been wanting to see how far their new tethers can stretch before they break and this is the perfect way. When Will stands by Hannibal's side, the volume of his thoughts is what Will thinks of as a ten.

            Now, as Will slows his pace, walking backwards lazily, avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk, he hears Hannibal again.

            _Further._

            That's a three.

            Hannibal is down a few streets, his scent no longer heavily prevalent. What Will smells overwhelmingly is pastry from coffee shops in the area. He smiles and does as he's told, alternately jogging and speed-walking down the streets. He sees another cop car parked nearby and so he crosses at a nearby crosswalk to not be seen jay-walking.

            _Do they even have jay-walking laws here?_ he wonders.

            _Just don't get into trouble_ , Hannibal thinks.

            Will smiles. That was barely a one.

            He continues to walk backwards, hands clasped behind his back, for a few feet, then stops. He doesn't want to lose contact altogether and he supposes this is how far the strand can stretch before it breaks. It's good enough. It's never been this elastic before, and Will doesn't plan on being this far from Hannibal very often. He nods to himself, and turns around to go back to his packmate.

            Will is caught like a deer in headlights.

            Not ten feet away stand a group of policemen, all turned away or mulling around a man in a thick brown coat and black hat. The man's profile is remembered, and produces a well of emotion in Will, so thick with betrayal and anguish. Will's stomach roils as if he might throw up, but he can't move. The expanse of thick brown hands. The small thatch of beard hair. And as the man turns.

            As the man turns–

            "Will," Jack says, his eyes widening on Will's form in the middle of the sidewalk. The policemen all turn to stare.

            Will's breath won't come.

            His feet won't move.

            Only his fingertips in tremors. His lower lip, too. Just slight. Overhead, a seagull calls.

            "Will!" Jack screams, and reaches a hand into his back pocket, under the coat. Will's eyes follow, his only movement.

            _Will!_

            Hannibal's body is an avalanche rushing into him, and he jerks Will by the wrist, pulling him to the left through an alleyway. Will's feet are suddenly moving, he's running, struggling to keep up with Hannibal and was that a shot he heard? Did Jack shoot at him? Hannibal–

            They jerk again to the right, through more narrow passageways and the cold wind tears through them and Will's fire has gone out, he's frigid, he's ice, everything is so damned cold. There are thudding sounds of footsteps, and police sirens whirring nearby. The cop cars. The silence of the streets. That's why. That's why. Freddie. Freddie Lounds. This is all her fault. No. Eneas. No, not even that. Not even Eneas and his goddamn stars. Will.

            It's been Will all this time.

            Tears prickle at his eyes but don't fall. He keeps his grip on Hannibal as they race past garbage cans, wooden crates, in the back alley. Jack's voice is getting louder, bellowing, and Hannibal's gate is slowing. Then, Will sees it.

            On Hannibal's left shoulder blade is a thin blue dart that sticks out from where its pierced through his jacket and shirt. A tranquilizer gun. That's what Jack was aiming.

            Jack is shouting his name. Jack is shouting Hannibal's name.

            Will's knees feel like they're going to buckle. Nothing is making sense, not the sky or the ground beneath his feet. He can't smell anything, and even his name in Jack's voice is distorting. He can't– he doesn't–

            He comes to a halt too sudden and before he's able to fall or trip, Hannibal has him in a warm, soft embrace. Will is pushed up against a dark brick building in the alley, beside some back door that's been boarded. Hannibal presses his body into Will's, has one arm around Will's waist, the other cupping gingerly the back of his head.

            "Will," he says into his packmate's ear. He's breathless, and sagging against Will. "Listen, Will. You are my cherished one." Hurried, hushed. Will's whimpering in response to Hannibal's hand threading through curly black hair. "You make the decision. What do you want to do? How do you want to play Jack's game?"

            "H-Hannib–"

            Jack's voice is here. He's here. And the footsteps. "Will!"

            Hannibal in his ear: "It's just a game. Don't panic. It's just–"

            From the side, Jack is there and a group of officers with guns drawn and Jack is shooting, one, two, three more darts into Hannibal who sags to his knees. Will grabs him by the shoulders, and Jack is in front of him; he flips his gun and takes the butt of it to Will's forehead–

            Black.

*

"Will? Can you hear me, Will?"

*

"Don't give him too much. It's just a few more hours."

*

"You'll be all right. We'll get this sorted out."

*

"I'm sorry I failed you."

*

"Okay. Be careful. Gentle with this one."

*

            Blinding sun white, hot white, sky white, and suddenly Will's blinking, and suddenly Will's smiling, or trying to, because it's obviously the sun over Playa Varesse and it's obviously summer and maybe the tourists are back, maybe it's hunting season and he should tell Hannibal let's have a date night tonight, even if it isn't the weekend, and hey, is it the weekend, because maybe we have work today, maybe Julieta Ramos will come by today and tell me I'm _encantadour_ , maybe–

            Will groans. His head is swimming.

            Blinking.

            That light is florescent. Lights. They're all across the ceiling, moving, but then Will realizes that, no, they aren't moving, he is. He's moving, bobbing up and down like a lure on a stream's surface. The lights are in a row down the middle of an otherwise darkened hall.

            Will groans lightly and feels he's being carried. Vision finally sets into place for him and he sees the clothes of the man who's carrying him. White scrubs that look familiar. Will turns his head and sees glass looking into empty cells, beds, a sink, a toilet. The scents come rushing into him, finally, as if his body is suddenly coming back to itself. Cogs turning in a giant machine. Bellows working. Steam flowing. Coming online. He lifts his aching head and looks back along the long row of cells and sees at the furthest one, a man in scrubs shuts and locks the door. Through the glass, Hannibal is slumped over in the corner, eyes now opening blearily. Legs akimbo. Drugged gaze slowly rising.

            And Will, he–

            He _screams_.

            Thrashes.

            His wide pupils zero impossibly to slits the width of a hair. He jerks forward and only then realizes his hands are cuffed together. It's a non-sequitur. The orderly carrying Will startles and tips back with Will's thrashing, and he screams when Will is loose and on his feet. From the right, through the open door bursts two armed guards and Will barely sees their faces before he smashes into one, and is fang-deep in the man's neck. He's screaming. Or is it the other one? Will is only there a second, only long enough to severe the jugular.

            The other guard has his truncheon in hand, and his eyes are so wide the whites are all Will sees before the lunge. He can feel the hot sting of the truncheon on his skin – upper arm, shoulder – but twice is all the guard has before he's limp and in spasms on the ground, his neck spurting, drooling black blood.

            The orderly is somewhere in Will's peripheral vision with a walkie-talkie, shrieking and crying, and there's static-lined voices, and another guard comes from the open hall, stun gun out. Will only just evades it, works his way around the guard, hands over his head, then tight around the guards neck, choking the life from him with the chain of the cuffs. Choking is taking too long so Will snaps his neck.

            Blood coats the floor.

            More guards pour from the open door and Will is up against the glass of Hannibal's cell. Pounding both fists against the glass until his knuckles are blood-raw, wrists chafed from the cuffs. Hannibal's eyes are dark, like he can see Will, and his feet and hands are moving but he can't get up.

            "Hannibal," Will cries.

            "W-Will," Hannibal says, barely audible.

            Hands are on Will, pulling him from the glass, and Will throws himself against it, and he's pulled back again and again and more hands are on him, he's scratching, and someone pushes their stun gun to Will's left side–

            "H-Haaa–" his word devolves into groaning and his mouth fills with frothy saliva. He spasms once, and a guard throws Will over his shoulder. He's walking away, surrounded by three, four, five others. There's noise everywhere, panicked shouts, and medics pour into the hall to tend to the wounded on the floor. The dead on the floor.

            Will is stunned again when he keeps scratching.

            He can barely see Hannibal now as he's rushed away, and his vision is blurry, but he grips the shoulder of the man carrying him with the last of his waning strength.

            "D-Don't! _Don't_! **_Don't_**!"

            He screams himself hoarse and blacks out with the third stun.

           

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe that is what they call a wham chapter.


	26. Where the Rift Is

When Will wakes, it is with a jolt so sudden and harsh that he falls off of the cot on which he's been placed. The strong scent of blood is in his nose, that and the familiar gloom of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane which he remembers. Everything hits him at once: the smells, the distant sounds of other patients, the bright light in his cell and the cold concrete he hits. His left side stings, maybe from the stun gun. His head is in pieces. He lays wretched on the floor, half curled onto himself, half sprawled.

            Then, he looks over and sees his thin reflection in the glass. A hand races upward to check his horns and there's the quick fear that the orderlies might have done something to them. They're intact. And Will remembers.

            Lesser creatures can't see what he's become. It's just as well, for the moment.

            He uses his hand to help himself sit up, which elicits a trembling whine. He grits to stop himself but can't. He's whining and whimpering as he pulls his knees in. Steadies. Nausea swims in him but he can't coddle his sickness. He's got work to do.

            Slowly, too slowly, he rises to his feet. Ah, it's so strange. As if he were newborn, that day on the beach, as he rose to his feet to grasp onto Hannibal. He sways now, testing his unsure strength. There's none left. Drugs course through his veins, remnants of whatever was used on the flight from Argentina to keep him under. He's covered in injection marks. The swaying stills just enough for Will to stand firmly on his feet. They've put him in a grey jumpsuit, unmarked grey slip-on shoes. Will looks at himself in the glass and can't make out his eyes, shaded by his curls.

            He exhales, widens his stance, and throws his whole body at the glass, left shoulder first. The thud following is thick, and his head knocks against it. Further down the hall, some other patient stirs.

            Will strides backwards a few paces, then launches himself again.  

            He tries not to think of Hannibal, as it will only distract him. Devolve him from purpose into what he truly wants to be right now which is a sobbing, mewling mess on the floor clawing at his own skin.

            Walks backwards. Rams it again. This time his left shoulder dislocates.

            Will flinches, grips his lank arm with his working one. He paces back further this time, almost to the wall. Grits his teeth and turns his other side to face the glassed wall. A meek sound escapes him, weak-willed and wet, because for a quarter-second he has allowed himself to think on his halfness and it has nearly killed him. He clenches his fist, narrows red-ringed eyes, and bears up for another launch.

            Before he can move, an orderly has come to stand on the other side of the glass and he barely looks at Will before shooting him once again with a tranquilizer, through one of the large air holes. The dart hits Will's shoulder, right, and with a voice barely above a whisper he looks at the orderly evenly. "Miss Hannibal," he says.

            The orderly's mouth tightens to a thin line. He shoots again.

*

Will opens his eyes to find that he's laying on his cot. His left arm as been re-set in its socket, and he's bandaged. Will looks at the glass wall again, but stays on the bed.

            He looks upward.

            Hannibal is still in the building. He can feel his packmate's presence, though lightly, through many walls. He's far away, but he is here. Will tells himself this is enough to be thankful for, for the moment.

            He takes in a shaky breath.

            Closes his eyes.

            _Think about it_ , he tells himself. _Just think._

            He remembers Hannibal's sweet voice in his ear, telling him not to panic. Will recalls it and swallows over some thick lump in his throat. Don't panic.

            He cannot hear Hannibal at all, which means he must be further from him than he was on the day they were taken. From what he could see out of his cell, this hallway is one of the lower floors, dank and reserved for the most riotous of patients. It would also explain why there is an orderly not far from him with a tranquilizer gun. After what happened to the last one handling Will, they've decided to arm the poor things.

            Will grits his teeth. His horns ache. His body is a block of ice. He rolls to his side, to try to find warmth in the frail thing they call a blanket. His one pillow is flat as mid-country. It's almost funny. The last time he was here, Will was not so choosy about his bed. Though, for the last ten months, having slept and rolled and loved in that giant cloud Hannibal supplied for a bed, he supposes he's been spoiled.

            He smiles, trembling.

            And he goes back to that room.

            Sinks, so deeply, into himself that when he opens his eyes he is in a long corridor of their mind palace.

            The hall is brightly lit with chandeliers and lined endlessly with closed doors, some cherry wood, some mahogany. Each door stands the height of two of Will. The scent is familiar, wraps him up and welcomes him home. He breathes it in steady.

            He knows where he is and his footsteps echo in the great expanse, no longer the thin-soled slip-shoes but his black Oxfords and he is dressed in black with a red tie, loosened, because Will cannot always abide ties.

            He comes to stand in front of this door he sought, and he opens it with a sweaty hand, falls into the remembered room thankfully, full of relief to see it. To take his eyes from the misery that has surrounded his actual body. This room is love and truth, and he walks into it, shutting the door behind himself securely. Inhales so deep. His eyes are ringed red.

            Walking across the carpet to stand in front of the open window. Morning light. Outside, he can see the neighborhood as it was so early, cars leaving homes to travel yawning streets to work. Wind shaking the branches. A rock dove singing somewhere close. Will turns from the window, spins on one heel, and falls into bed, the sheets and duvet flying up around him.

            Will cracks an actual smile.

            The bed smells like them. It smells as they left it in Mar del Plata, thick with sweat and semen, echoing declarations of love and obsession that lined every moan they ever spilled. Every hitch of breath. Will pulls a thick pillow to his chest and holds it securely.

            He simply lies still and breathes for a few moments. Looking up through thick eyelashes, he sees the nightstand with the clock, flashing 6:23 AM, and an empty vial of almond oil, and beneath that, the book of Louise Glück poems.

            Will blinks a few times, reaches out and takes the book. He flips onto his stomach, propped up on elbows and reads silently from it. He has heard every poem since they bought it, and loved it all, all the more so because Hannibal had taken to reading from it to him after love, when they were still coated in fluids and hot and heavy breathing.

            Will can almost hear him as he runs a pointer finger beneath the lines.

            _I was human:_

_I had to beg to descend–_

_the salt, the bitter, the demanding, the preemptive_

_And like everyone, I took, I was taken_

_I dreamed_

_I was betrayed:_

_Earth was given to me in a dream_

_In a dream I possessed it._

            Will keens lowly and so gentle does he place his forehead into the open pages of the book. It still smells of the store, dusty and old and full of sea brine. Hannibal read this particular poem to him not long after he pulled out of Will. That has always been Will's least favorite thing about sex: that they must part. In another Glück poem, there is the line: "where the rift is, the break is."

            Will feels broken.

*

Jack stands before the cell when Will finally comes out of the mind palace. His stance is wide, hands lolling at his sides. He has deep circles beneath his eyes and his clothes and suit jacket are wrinkled. His expression is entirely unreadable.

            Will sits up carefully, wincing at his shoulder.

            There's silence between them for a long while, each tracing the other with gazes that are neither tender nor hostile. Finally, Jack exhales a shaky breath and says, "What happened to you, Will?"

            Will is taken aback. It's the same thing Freddie said to him over the breakfast table. What must he look like to these lesser creatures? But Will feels that giving Jack the same answer he gave Freddie would be counterproductive, so instead he stays quiet, tilting his head slightly.

            Jack's shoulders slump. "God," he says.

            Will nods his head.

            "I wanted," Jack pauses to swallow, "I wanted to talk to you in one of the conference rooms. Not like this. But after what you did coming _in_ here, and what with Hannibal losing his shit upstairs every time someone tries to sedate him, I figured this is just going to have to do for now. Listen, Will."

            Will's eyes are afire. He's listening.

            "I'm sorry," Jack says.

            Will quirks an eyebrow mildly.

            "I'm sorry I ever put you two in a room together. I'm sorry I took you out of your classroom."

            _Oh_ , Will thinks, _that's right. I used to be a teacher, didn't I?_

            "I was given my position in the BAU because of my ability to make the right calls. But I made a bad one with you, with Hannibal. A mistake that turned out catastrophic. I don't think it was ever possible for me to make a bigger one."

            Will isn't sure what comes over him, but he does feel the need to reassure Jack. Residue, he supposes, of Will Graham. He cannot tell him what he wants to tell him, which is: _Don't fret for me, Jack. I am wedded and adored._ All he can say is, "Don't."

            Jack looks at Will with mild surprise. "They told me you can't speak. But I guess you can say a few words. I talked to Alana. She says this happens often when someone is suffering from heavy trauma."

            It's so quick that Jack barely has time to take one step back. Will is pressed up against the glass, his eyes ablaze, teeth bared.

            What does Alana Bloom know about he and Hannibal?

            What does she know about _trauma_?

            Nothing. She knows nothing.

            "Will, calm down, I didn't mean–"

            Will shakes his head. "Miss Hannibal," he cries. He rakes fingernails down the glass and rests his fingertips in one of the air holes.

            Jack's brown eyes round. He swallows again and turns his head away. "I'll talk to you about this more later, Will. It's been a long day. But the truth is, you're not going to see Hannibal again. It's just not going to happen. After your trials, there isn't going to be a Hannibal to see anymore."

            Jack is walking away and Will is screaming, bellowing, low and ripping from somewhere deep inside him that isn't human anymore and to anyone else it would sound more at home on darkened moors where monsters roam, unseen, but heard. Yes, they are heard. 

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments mean the world to me, and thus, Happy Saturday!


	27. Rust and Stardust

Screaming does nothing. And he cries, but his crying is broken in some way– as he sobs, no tears come. His face is dry and red. He then tries to comfort himself, massaging at his horns, much in the way Hannibal had whenever Will was agitated. But this goes beyond agitation and the pressure he puts on his horns only unnerves him. He knows there are cameras everywhere and what if someone were to see his actions? Would they merely tilt their head in confusion, safe in their assumptions that Will is surely a madman? Or would they look closer?

            And if they look closer, can they see?

            Can they see what Hannibal has made of Will?

            Will won't risk it. Instead, he lays on the cot again. Since he arrived, he has been unable to sleep, save for the tranquilizations which, for some reason, never left him feeling rested. He supposes sleep would be best for him, to help him reset and think. But no sleep ever comes and it hits Will that it must be because Hannibal is not sleeping. Yes, Hannibal is awake. Has been for hours, possibly days. He's awake and above Will.

            Will stares up at the light in his cell.

            He goes into himself.

            Closes his eyes.

            When he opens them again, he is on the bottom floor of their mind palace, staring out at the glossed French doors which lead to the great lanai and beyond that, the grounds behind the palace. From deeper within the palace, the long winding corridors, Will can hear echoes of himself, sweet tired moans he's made at midnight when Hannibal moved inside him. Will swallows and opens the French doors.

            The lanai is painted white and its banister waist-height. Pine and sugar maple scent mixes in the air, the rushing air, the fall trees dotted red-yellow on the horizon. Thrushes rustle leaves, piled up in the green yard, and there runs a stream between two pebbly banks. It babbles, whispers. Will looks at the person standing in it, up to her knees in water, a fishing rod in hand. She stares at the water listlessly, and does not move as Will approaches her, as he walks across the wide lawn and stands in grit and rocks on the sleepy shore.

            _Abigail_ , he calls to her.

            She startles, brown hair flashing as she turns. The water stirs around her and the fish are gone. Her eyes are winter-blue and rounded as the sun behind her.

            "Daddy," she trills. She holds the fishing rod tightly between her breasts. "Ah, it's been so long! You don't come to see me near as often as you should."

            Will smiles, nodding. _I visit you all the time, silly. But you're right. It should be more._

            Abigail splashes further, her black galoshes ungainly on thin legs. She wades until she reaches the shore. The fishing rod is tossed into the grass and Abigail throws her arms around Will.

            "I missed you," she says.

            _I missed you too._ Will holds her firmly for a long moment. Her hair smells of rust and stardust. He then takes her shoulders in a light grip and pulls her away. _I have to talk with you, Abigail._

            Her expression is blank, then bright. "Is this about Papa?"

            _It is._

            "Oh, I knew it. He came here to ask me about you too, you know." She grins, sharp tiny teeth. "He seemed worried about you. What trouble have you gotten yourselves into, Daddy?"

            _He was here?_

            "Yep, just a few hours ago." She looks up at the sun and squints, for a moment out of sorts. "I think. Time is hard to tell here."

            _I know, Abigail._ Will releases his hold on her shoulders. _Hannibal and I are being kept apart._

            "That's what Papa said. Something like that anyway. He's so worried, Daddy, I haven't seen him like that before." Her pink lips quirk, eyebrows tent. "It scared me."   

            _You haven't seen him like what before, Abigail?_

            "I..." She pauses, eyes out of focus. Then she looks back at Will with urgency. "I could see... his heart hurting. And he was angry. It leaked out of him." She takes in a small breath, smiles. "But he said he wasn't upset with me at all. He said someone else's name. I remember... that woman, Alana. Do you remember her, Daddy?"

            _I do._ Will nods, looks back at the sumptuous loom of the palace. He takes Abigail's hands in his. They are frail, shivering from the river cold. _Abigail, I'm going to look for Hannibal. We're missing each other._

            "I understand, Daddy." Abigail takes a step forward, then back. Her feet scuffle in the grass. "But, promise me you'll be safe. You and Papa. Don't let them – whoever they are – kill you. Don't let them do it." She looks at the ground, biting her lower lip, then grips Will's hands back with a strange amount of strength. "We're a family, aren't we, Daddy? And we won't let outsiders kill us, will we?"

            _No, we won't._ Will looks into her eyes. Her pupils are expansive. In them, he can see Hannibal cutting her throat. It repeats on a loop, never-ending. Nothing ends here.

            Abigail smiles big and hugs Will once again before he untangles himself from her. She tells him she loves him and he says he loves her as he waves, making the trek back over the yard. When he reaches the lanai again, he turns back and sees her reeling in a trout.

            The palace insides are cool, but somehow he feels warmed. Even the cold glass and marble of the interior are warmer than Abigail's hands. Will turns his thoughts to the task at hand. He doesn't know if he can find Hannibal here, only that he must try. He walks the long corridors and cannot rely on scent, as their mixed scent permeates every wall of the palace. At times, as he walks, as he looks into rooms, he feels Hannibal so clearly it is as if he stands next to Will.

            Will mewls softly, looking at the empty spaces that surround him.

            He comes soon to the third floor, at the southwest offshoot of the main palace. This place is recently built, full of new additions, like Hannibal's Mar del Plata office and waiting room, and a vast room that mimics the sea cave which lays down the coast of Playa Varesse. Too, are a few rooms which hold the Juan Carlos Castagnino Municipal Museum of Art. Will stands before the great oak door and pushes it in.

            It is unlike the real thing in that is it not buzzing with socialites or a doorman who, upon entry, would hand out chardonnay. Instead it is a vacuum of silence, filled only with art, and the eternal curator who turns to face Will at his entry.

            "I did not expect you," Eneas says, smiling. His black eyes are mirthful, and his blue suit is well-pressed, close fitting. He holds his heart in his left hand. He has been unable to put it back. "I know you're not really one for still-life."

            Will's shoes click across the polished wood floor. Pueyrredón's work lines the walls of the room. Will stands before one large panting that bursts with colors of orange and brown. He looks back at Eneas.

            _Hannibal has been here, hasn't he?_

            "He has, quite recently. Not to view the art, however." Eneas holds his heart up, narrowing one eye at it. It palpates steadily. "He came for the same reason you come now. To ask after the other."

            _We're being separated. We can't find each other._

            Eneas' eyes light, like a candle in the underworld. "Ah, I see. So the FBI caught up with you after all. My."

            _Gloating doesn't become you, Eneas._ Will turns away, gazes at another painting. _How long ago was he here?_

            "Time," Eneas says and tosses his heart up. He catches it, then finishes: "is irrelevant."

            _But if you had to say._

            "An hour. Less."

            Will turns on his heel to leave. As he reaches the door, Eneas says, "He threatened me. Can you believe that? You'd think he'd know I'm dead as a doornail. But he threatened me all the same to tell him if I'd seen you. He is unraveling without you."

            Will touches the golden doorknob with light fingertips. He leans forward briefly until his forehead comes to contact with the edge of the door. Closes his eyes.

            _If he comes back here, tell him... tell him–_

*

"Will."

            Will jerks, eyes opening dazedly. He searches around his cell, the real-world brightness nigh painful. He finds Jack standing just outside, his clothes no longer wrinkled, but the bags beneath his eyes just as deep, just as dark. Will is slowly coming back to his outer self and when he does the cold is shocking. It's as if he has dived into the Arctic.

            "Will, can we talk?"

            Will is shaking violently, and to Jack some jerking motion he's made must look like a nod.

            Jack exhales. He stares long at Will and then shrugs. "I wish you could tell me what he did to you. I wish I knew how to fix it–"

            There's a ragged moan that rips from Will, as he wraps his arms around himself to try creating warmth. How can Will make Jack understand? He doesn't need fixing. He needs to be with his packmate.

            "Just hear me out. You've obviously been through a lot. And Alana and I were talking about it. She still blames me, and I agree with her. It is all my fault. I practically pushed you two together. This will be your defense, Will. Your insanity plea."

            Will's eyes round, shiver, widen.

            "You will have a trial, plead insanity. Hannibal took advantage of you, kidnapped you, forced you to forget yourself. The same with Bedelia. You'll have to stay here, Will, but we'll get you a nicer cell, some comforts. And you'll have a real psychiatrist, one that can help you work through these issues."

            Will can hear his own heartbeat. It jackhammers against his ribcage.

            "It's raining outside, Will," Jack says. "Wouldn't it be nice to see that? We can get you a cell with a sky view, like the one Hannibal had."

            "Hannibal," Will whispers.

            "His trial. We're going for the death penalty and there's no way we won't get it."

            "Don't," Will says.

            "Hannibal is a mass murderer, cannibal, God knows what else. God knows what he _did_ to you. What happened to Freddie Lounds? Hannibal won't answer Alana and he sure as hell won't answer me. She's up there with him right now. And he's... well. He's not okay. I'm not sure how she can stand to be up there with him. No one else can." He pauses, and his eyes harden. "This is what I brought on us. I pushed you and doomed us all."

            It is quiet.

            Will can't hear the rain outside. But he hears something dripping, singularly. Leaking, just as Abigail said.

            Will stands from the cot, legs unfolding beneath him. He turns and walks for the glass wall, until he is right against it, leaning forward unflinching even as Jack takes two wide steps backwards. Will's hands settle in one of the air holes, and he looks at Jack with forest eyes, coral lips parted.

            _Jack, you don't get it. How could you? Do you know what's happened to me? Do you know what's happened to Will Graham, the man you think you're saving? Pieces. You think you're picking up pieces of him. But I am someone new. You have not seen me before, and so you cannot know what I need. Listen, Jack. I'm dying. I'm dying in this cell. My body is shutting down with cold. My headaches are getting worse. And what if my horns grow again? You cannot help me. Only Hannibal. You think you are to blame for my union with him, Jack, but it is not so. I was born twice: once to bring me to him, and again to bind me to him. We cannot survive vivisection. Please, Jack. If you held any love for me in any world, you would let us go. It is cruel to hold wild things captive. Can't you see it? It is finished – what we were looking for so long ago. It is found. I am what I was looking for, Jack. I am his design._

            Jack stares into the well of Will's eyes. Deep into the forest, the greenery, moss and bark. His own eyes widen and gloss over. His gaze moves lower to the lock of the door, and he looks for a long time.

            He presses his lips together, and turns and leaves.

             

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments compel me to update. I adore you guys. Happy Sunday.


	28. My Favorite View (Mine Alone)

Will is dying.

            The cell has felt like a freezer, winter winds flowing in through the air holes, for so long. It shifted, then, closing in, until it was not the cell acting as a freezer but Will's own body. The prison of his skin frigid. As if his horns were made of ice. The blanket, cot, pillow, do nothing for him, even as he rolls himself within them. It, too, is heavy. Balled fists beneath his chin like ice blocks. He is weighted by his shackles which are, inevitably, his being.

            This goes on for hours. Long after Jack has left, Will's mind churns aimlessly within itself. He is unable to concentrate enough to go deeper. There were things left unsaid – he had wanted to return and tell Eneas what to relay to Hannibal, should he come back. He can barely remember what it was anymore.

            He is hallucinating.

            The orderly outside the cell, ever watchful, clad in white with a luminous grey cap on his head. Tranquilizer gun somewhere on his person. He does transform into two orderlies, both similar in width and stature. Then three. Then the two who have been produced seemingly by budding take their leave, and Will is left with one again. And his one, then, paces agitatingly. Then there is music.

            Is it music?

            Yes, it must be music, but bad music. Will has never heard such a racket. His cold-numb body moves in increments across the cot. His forehead against the stark wall. The music is playing overhead, blaring, a long wail and then silence followed by another wail. Will closes his eyes, opens them slow. His eyelashes are coated in ice. He sees his orderly has noticed the music as well and is pacing faster, faster, in some mad mimicry of a dance. Will would smile if he didn't feel so wretched.

            It is like theatre.

            Who has orchestrated this show for him?

            Song and dance. The wild blaring of music. The orderly playing with his tranquilizer gun, and shuffling from one foot to the other. He looks at Will sometimes and his eyes, a light blue, look wide and worried.

            The blaring.

            Will is anchored deeper within his icy confines. His eyes open and close slower, his exhales deeper than inhales. His fingertips blue.

            The blaring.

            The pacing.

            Those light blue eyes turning to him, flashing up at him, then the ground, then again he paces. Ever onward.

            Will exhales again.

            He hears something light, airy, some kind of giggle. Where has he heard that before? It is accompanied by the clear splash of water, and yes, ah, he remembers the laugh is Abigail's and he can hear her call to him from so deep in his mind, from behind the palace, and in the river, her thin legs in galoshes.

            _Daddy?_

_You won't let them kill you, right?_

            Will inhales. Shakes. His eyebrows flinch.

            _Because we're a family, aren't we, Daddy?_

            Will grits his teeth.

            _And we won't let outsiders..._

            Exhales.

            _... we'll never let outsiders kill us._

            Will inhales in presence of a tidal wave that rushes in from all sides, and he manages to rise to his elbows in time to meet the horrified gaze of his orderly, which lasts the fraction of a second. The orderly raises his tranquilizer towards the hallway, beyond Will's field of vision. It rises only past his hips and he's arching back, strangled cries like oxygen escaping his lungs. Tranquilizer darts, one, two, three, line his ribcage and he falls into a heavy heap. Twitches once, twice.

            That blaring isn't music, Will realizes, only half a second before his vision is filled with the source of that tidal wave, that surge of ire and power. Hannibal stands with a widened stance, his clothes, orderly-white wrinkled and ill-fitting. Before him, hanging with its neck in his mouth, is a limp body, voluminous black hair cascading over its face, pale neck broken and stamped with bite marks. Hannibal releases and the body clumps to the floor in a ragged heap, not so unlike the orderly behind in the corner.

            A key ring is retrieved from Hannibal's pocket and he doesn't break eye-contact with Will as he unlocks the door. It opens.

            Will swallows, eyes wide as worlds. He is sitting upright in his cot, frail blanket pooled in his lap. His hands lay palms up on the blanket, fingertips twitching. He dare not move, frightened this is another hallucination brought on by heartache.

            Hannibal walks over the body he's dropped at the cell door and strides towards Will. He stops at the cot. They look into each other's eyes; Will's are a meadow in springtime and Hannibal's paint the blackest face of woe.

            Fingers come to gently touch Will's chin, lifting it upward. Hannibal bends and so carefully, and with such reverence, does he place his lips over Will's. With that, Will feels something strike and spark, a heat that enters him from his lips and lingers there, just there, and is enough to bring his sense forth. Yes, this is real.

            "Are you ready to leave?" Hannibal asks softly, lips moving against Will's.

            Will nods.

*

It is almost reverie, the way in which Will has come to be here. He is light-headed, his body is a tundra, but Hannibal's simple nearness keeps enough of a fire lit in Will that he does not merely topple over. He stands in orderly whites that Hannibal easily shucked from the man who had been standing guard over Will.

            Will tries not to lean against the wall behind him, nor Hannibal to his side, but finds it difficult. He opens and shuts his eyes dazedly, the world far away. His one link to it is Hannibal's voice fresh inside his head, clear and solid, a ten, as it was when they stood on the dreary shore of Playa Varesse.

            The sirens continue to blare overhead.

            He remembers stepping out of the cell, lead by Hannibal's hand. And as Hannibal busied himself procuring the orderly uniform for Will, Will looked down at the body of Alana Bloom that lay haphazardly on the floor. She might look as if she had fallen asleep in her nicely-pressed pantsuit if not for the way her neck hung against itself like a ragdoll. In his misty haze, Will eyed her softly. It was probably quick. It was too good for her, but he won't complain.

            His name is called all throughout the asylum, and on the walkie-talkie buzzing at his hip. Hannibal's name too.

            'Where are they?'

            'Where is Alana?'

            'We need to call Crawford.'

            Someone else replies, in a hurried and desperate fashion, that they will be doing no such thing. There are two warring voices then that Will hears fading in and out with static. One says this is beyond their control. The other says they have complete control.

            One says shoot on sight.

            The other says we can't shoot Will Graham.

            One says wing him.

            The other agrees.

            Will's hand is in Hannibal's when they walk out the front doors, and from the lawns to the brush and from the brush to the surrounding woods.

*

Jack was right:

            It's raining.

            It's so light when they first reach the foliage and overhang of white oaks and pines that Will can barely feel the droplets by the time they make the basin. It's grey and summer-warm. Will had forgotten weather in the northern hemisphere. But the weather doesn't do much for his current state, which, even as they tramp through the hot-wet trees, is deteriorating. Hannibal's presence keeps Will's heat from going out completely but at this time it is much like cupping a hand around a little flame in the face of a hurricane. Will is reeling.

            The leaves overhead are bursting with green, so dark the undersides, so bright the tops. Will stares up while being pulled ahead and a raindrop falls into his left eye.

            _Am I remembering wrong? Have we done this before?_

            _We have done this before_ , Hannibal thinks. _Though I would say, that since I am not shot and you are not stabbed, this may be a marked improvement._

            Will's laughter is breathless.

            He looks up as Hannibal leads him onward. The green leaves, the grey clouds, the water continually dripping into his eyes, it all begins to tilt and plunge into each other.

            _Is it raining in Mar del Plata? Is it raining... over our house?_

            There is tenderness in Hannibal's thoughts. _Perhaps._

            Will's lips are blue. _Your patients must be so confused. They must be thinking... where is our doctor? Tomas must be beside himself._ He laughs, and it sounds like a sob. _Poor Julieta. And sweet Sofi._

_I'm sure they miss you much more than me, chico encantadour._

            Will thinks he hears birds rustling overhead. The rain continues on, increasing incrementally, from tiny droplets to fat drips of water, and in his eyes, always in his eyes. The birds are getting wet. And in Mar del Plata, Will is sure it does not rain there. It is arid and cold, and the waves rush at the sand and the sea foam is grey. The trees sere and dry. Will's eyes are red. The birds are getting wet.

*

In time, they come to Baltimore proper. Will is addled to the point of thinking pure nonsense, and he is drenched, cloudy-eyed. The time of day is uncertain for the darkness and gloom but it may be after sunset. The city is streaked in streetlights, burning bright of florescence in buildings, lit-up gas station signs and red taillights that blink.

            Will is, peripherally, aware of the cop cars he sees on varying street corners. The bold blue of Baltimore Police Department flashes at him for some reason. It is reminiscent of when he was under Hannibal's care as a patient and that blue light flashing sent him into seizures.

            They come to a small, out-of-the-way motel that stands illuminated with a flashing sign against the grievous sky. Under the awning, on the concrete breezeway, Will leans up against the building, away from sight of the street. The rain continues and the parking lot has turned to tarn. Will's chest heaves, the orderly clothes upon him weighted and soaked. Droplets fall from the tips of his horns, which, when his eyes roll up, he can see the points of. They are shimmering, a lighthouse in the dark. Will smiles, lopsided. Even the rebellious horn, which he had always scorned for its crooked, wandering, winding ways, is endeared to him now. Each curl and curve precious.

            Will hears a sharp cry, mid-cry, cut off. And then another.

            His horns are dripping, and finally his knees do buckle. He nearly falls in on himself, and before he hits the ground a forearm, sturdy and familiar, is around his waist, keeping him aloft. Hannibal smiles into his wet ear.

            _Not yet, Will._

            Will is dragged into room 3, along the breezeway, and the door is shut hurriedly behind him. Two bodies, those of a man and woman, lay by the door, folded in on each other. They smell of cigarettes and mountain air. Hannibal places their key on the nightstand and lets Will fall to the modest queen-size bed. Will collapses into it and makes soft noises that, even to his own ears, sound like elegies. He bursts with new shivers while Hannibal roughly sloughs him of his heavy-wet clothes.

            And Will can see his teeth.

            _Not yet._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to our regular update schedule we go. And, incidentally, this is the final week!


	29. Let's Never Change...

It is full dark out and rain hits the windowpanes like bullets and Will is in Hannibal's mouth.

            The sopping orderlies' uniforms are at the foot of the bed, soaking rainwater into the dark blue carpet. Bodies slumped against each other in the corner, wedding rings on their fingers. Thick curtains hang half-drawn against the room's one wide window. And through that, washed-out neon lights of yellow and pink from the motel sign lay flat in the darkened room, over Will's body diagonal; pink neon on Will's stomach, yellow in Hannibal's hair. And into Hannibal's eye when he opens it on the updrag, when he looks along the bed to see Will twisting endlessly like a worm on a hook.

            "H-Hannibal–"

            The hot wet of Hannibal's mouth is remembered and yet bursting with newness. Every push of his tongue and flick of his wrist undulates Will in a current the strength of a flash flood. Hannibal licks so gently and Will comes up for air. Hannibal deep-throats and Will is yanked under. And his saliva is warm.

            Will's eyes go from open to closed, and he's grasping at the headboard. He's dragged under the surface again with something akin to a watery yelp that makes its way from deep within his being. Liquid heat pools in his heart and his heart pumps it out to every extremity. Lava circulating. Covering his body inch by inch; Hannibal's flushed lips sinking down on him inch by inch.

            His stomach tightens. His knees are over Hannibal's shoulders, and Hannibal's free hand comes around his thigh to simply rest on Will's taut stomach. It lays in the neon pink light from the window. Miles away, lightning strikes, and it lights the room in cyan. For such a brief second, Will's eyes roll down and he watches, keening with every updrag, hissing with every engulfment. He sees Hannibal's wet bangs against his forehead, the thick angles of his back muscles, shoulders, biceps. And Will says, "Miss," clear as wedding bells, in that soundless moment before the thunder and within that following din, Will comes with every muscle in his body coiled. Heat permeates his body.

            Will swallows the sun. Hannibal swallows Will.

            Hannibal wastes not a drop; he licks Will clean as if he has carelessly spilled liquid gemstones: diamond water or sapphire syrup. Will is in the hazy throes of an afterglow, limp and smiling, but Hannibal drags him off of the bed, towards the bathroom. He tells Will he isn't done yet, that kindling is not enough – Will must blister.

            The bathroom light flashes on, a stark brightness in contrast to the dark of the bedroom. Will shields his eyes as Hannibal blasts the shower as hot as it will go. When he turns around, he grabs dazed, lukewarm Will by the wrist and pulls him into the shower where they both stand under the fervent rushing of hot water. Rain and sweat washes down the drain.

            Will's back is to the drumming water, and it pinkens his skin dramatically. He closes his eyes, lips in half-smile, half-gape. The soft buzz of the stream over his horns. It feels like a dream compared to the cold cell he thought would be his tomb.

            Hannibal stands before him, so close for the allowance of the small shower. His wet hands cup Will's face, soft at first, and then firm, his long fingers around Will's jaw, one thumb rubbing along the cheek-scar, the other thumb pressing the side of Will's upper lip back so as to see fully the glare of his fang.

            "I would have never let that happen," Hannibal says.

            Will's eyes open emerald from under thick lashes. He looks into Hannibal's murky gaze.

            "In the same way, I would not let a poacher kill a lion."

            Hannibal's fingertips shake, briefly, before he re-grips Will tighter, and pushes his mouth to Will's. The kiss is solidifying and devout.

            "Do you know why, Will?" he asks upon the end of the kiss.

            Will brings his hands up to rest on Hannibal's wrists. He grips them. _Because lions should die in the wild._

            "Yes, Will."

            When the water begins to cool, Hannibal turns it off. He dries both he and Will with the same big towel, and then uses it to wipe some of the steam from the wide mirror over the sinks. When he turns around, drops the towel; he takes Will's warm, naked body in his arms and kisses his packmate open-mouthed, intruding, with such ferocity it looks like anger. Will responds in kind; though wet-handed, he grips Hannibal wherever possible, as if he were the ridge keeping Will from the depth of the chasm below.

            Hannibal backs Will up to the counter, until the sharp edge presses into Will's backside. Their fevered kiss slows. Wet from the shower and saliva, both mingling on their tongues, lips. Will's fang is being kissed at, loved at, much in the way his horns are, with one of Hannibal's hands wrapped around the base of the bull's. His other hand comes up Will's side, holding at him, until he is able to rub his thumb around one of Will's nipples. He then uses both hands to run along Will's wet washed flanks, pausing every second or two to squeeze, to assure himself of Will's existence.

            Hannibal breaks his mouth from Will's– Will thinks it's for air.

            Their foreheads press together. Hannibal's gaze lolling on Will's pink lips, flushed and so wet, and from one mouth to the other connects one thin line of saliva, thinner than a spider's web, and every bit as translucent. Will stares now too. Hannibal exhales, breaks the lacy chain bonding them, and in one motion he whirls Will around so he faces the broad, foggy mirror. Pushes Will down against the counter, and in the duration of Will's outcry, Hannibal takes wet fingers to Will, pushing into him with little thought. In a second, he uses a knee to separate Will's legs further, and takes Will's hip in hand– lines the two of them up and–

            "Hannibal!" Will's voice is startled, shimmering in the steam-heavy air. Hannibal has pushed forward with lurid force, flush against Will, buried fully, and Will's green eyes are wide and glazed and his smile is open-mouthed. His forearms, balled fists, forehead are resting on the cold counter. Veins stand out on his neck, the heels of his hands rub down, fingers tremble, trying to find anything to grip onto. Hannibal allows him nothing, taking one hand instead to Will's rebellious horn, that which Hannibal has always favored for Will has always denounced it. Hannibal grips it firmly and lifts, forcing Will's head up, forcing his gaze to fall wholly on himself in the mirror.

            Through streaks of film and fog, he looks into his own star-stricken gaze. His body is cardinal red, dripping with perspiration and water, dark hair in luxurious ringlets framing his face. His fang catches the light. Cheek-scar sears pink from the heat. Horns aglow.

            Yes, there is much in the world humans cannot see.

            Will does not ask this of them.

            Will only looks into his own eyes, and feels something in him pulled deep. Bottom of the sea, and core of the earth. The netherworld and rocky abyss. Hellfire. Then, yes, then up again– His heart on a string. Through fire and water. Higher, into air. Up the length of spires and fanes. Sun and stars. The ethereal quiet of heaven.

            Hannibal drives into him, his other hand on Will's hip, blunt fingernails puncturing skin.

            _You're here._

            Will's eyes alight. _Yes, I'm here._

            Will shoves back to meet Hannibal's relentless force, and it pulls a cry from both of them, and Hannibal doubles over on top of Will. He bites heavy into the back of Will's neck, breaking skin, holding, holding, pushing in deeper until his body rips control from him and he pours into Will. The desperate grunt he makes as he shudders speaks to Will's whole being and he comes as if on accident or by force– messily and strong against the counter and cabinets beneath.

            Hannibal stays inside Will for as long as he can. He releases his sharp hold on his packmate's bloody neck and moves his mouth to the smooth skin between Will's shoulder blades. Presses full-mouthed kisses there, while Will pants faint and low, and whatever pain they have felt is pierced, threaded, prettied by love.

*

It is near 1 AM when they leave the motel room. The rain drums the concrete and grass and streets steadily. Streetlights burn bright, a few headlights pass the motel parking lot. They have taken the key ring from the couple in the motel room, along with some of the man's clothes from his suitcase. He packed baseball caps, which Hannibal and Will jam down over their heads. They also take a switchblade from the man's back pocket. When Hannibal clicks the unlock button on the key remote, a nearby silver Pontiac beeps back. They climb in and start off down the road.

            There aren't many vehicles out besides cop cars. Baltimore Metropolitan Police still flashes everywhere, and Will watches stoically from the passenger's side. As they travel down the sloshing roads, they see the cop cars stationed at gas stations, bus stops, off-ramps of highways.

            On the radio, some song plays low, men singing about Cupid and how he does not lie.

            Will exhales slowly out of his nose, settles his head back against the seat. Red and blue flashings pass over his face and he pulls the bill of the cap lower. Hannibal looks over at him at red lights, watches his fingers quiver on his seatbelt.

*

The neighborhood is quiet and Will knocks gingerly on the door.

            The windows all along the house are lit-up despite the late hour. A faint yellow glow surrounds each one in the haze of night and rain. Will takes the cap from his head, holds it in one bunched fist at his side. There is movement on the other side of the door, and Will feels an eye on him through the peephole. When the door opens, Jack has a pistol aimed at his chest. He stands in black slacks and a night shirt, half-tucked.

            His hand is still, so still.

            Will looks at him.

            "Will," Jack says. He, for just an instant, takes his eye from Will and looks to either side of his porch. "Where is Hannibal?"

            Will tilts his head upward, and slowly raises his hands out to his sides. He drops the hat. Shows his palms, and, on his right side, the red splotch on his sweater where, beneath, the skin has been sliced into. Blood darkens the beige of the fabric, and Will looks from it to Jack. He says, "Hannibal."

            Jack's eyebrows knit. His hand tightens on the pistol, and he takes a step back. "Get in here," he says, watching as Will calmly walks forward. The living room of Jack's house is as he remembers, if not slightly messier. "Turn around."

            Will does, arms still raised. For effect, he winces, as if his side pains him.

            Jack comes to him, around him, and pats him down thoroughly. Will stands throughout it, looking idly at his surroundings. He catches sight of himself in a long mirror on the other side of the room – wide and long enough to see both himself and Jack's hand patting him down. In the bright light, Will's horns shine.

            Jack is done, and moves from Will slowly, lowering his gun. He looks at Will's side as Will lowers his arms. "I'm surprised you got away from him with just that. Last time he left you, you were gutted."

            Will nods carefully.

            Jack sighs. He tucks in the other side of his shirt. "Those idiots down at the hospital said you two escaped. I asked when. _Hours_ have passed, they said. I was about to go out and help look for you."

            Will nods.

            "They said the police have the roads out of the city blocked; they're watching the airport, bus terminals, trains." Jack's shoulders square. "How did you get here, Will?"

            Will's eyes move from himself in the mirror to Jack. Jack's brown brown eyes. They are so tired. He must have heard about Alana. And Will thinks, _Look what he has done to you, Jack. And not just Hannibal, but circumstance. Birth is so traumatic, isn't it? Some survive, thrive, yet some are stillborn. When we rose again, did you cry, Jack, as I did? Did you scream for life? Or did you curl up and fade? And do you feel sorry for me, Jack? Or is this simply remorse? Can a poacher feel remorse when he has shot at the lion and missed?_

_Because you missed._

            At Will's silence, Jack heaves a sigh. He says, "You're going to help me catch him, for real this time, Will. I'll have to handcuff you. But then we're going." Jack turns, makes for the staircase. The carpet squishes soft under his socked feet. The pistol swings in his right hand, at his side. When his foot hits the first step of the stair, Will rushes for his right arm and from above, in the darkness of the stairs, Hannibal rushes for the left arm.

            Jack bellows– and it sounds like surprise, Will notes as he takes the arm full and pulls and twists until there is a distinct pop of bone out of socket.

            _Are you surprised, Jack?_ Will thinks, as Hannibal does the same to the other arm. _You wouldn't have been had you paid attention. Had you seen that Hannibal has not manipulated my love for him. It has grown wild and organic, from the very root of me._

            The pistol drops to the floor seconds before Jack does. Will scoops it up. He eyes it flippantly, turning it over, as Hannibal strides towards Jack, as Jack kicks his way back and up until his back hits the side of one of his plush couches. Jack's arms hang limp at his sides, and his eyes are wide, bugging, as he stares upwards at Hannibal looming over him, at Will a few steps back.

            "Will," Jack shouts.

            Will stares at the gun, makes a small sound in answer to his name.

            "Will, don't let him do this."

            Hannibal sounds calm, even as veins stand out on his forearms. "Will does not let me do anything. His desire and mine met and meshed long ago. There is no longer any difference."

            Still, Jack stares at Will. "Will, please. Think about what Hannibal has done. Really _think_ about it."

            Finally, Will does turn to look at Jack. He tucks the pistol into the back of his jeans, and walks forward. He stands next to his packmate, and slowly he raises his gaze from Jack to Hannibal's stormy eyes.

            And he does really think about it.

            Somewhere nearby, out in the soft din of rain, there are sirens. Wailing, droning. Approaching. Will looks back at Jack with one eyebrow raised. He kneels, and Hannibal walks forward, bending slightly, placing one hand at the back of Jack's neck, holding him still despite the rising protests and curses from Jack.

            Will has thought about it.

           

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ready to see how this story ends? Stay with me!


	30. ... For Anyone

"Ah! And then what, Papa? What happened next?"

            "We should let Will tell that part."

            "Daddy?"

            Will smiles, eyeing Hannibal first, then letting his gaze settle on Abigail. Her doe eyes are round, wide, shimmering under the sun overhead. Her fists balled tight, pressed together at her chest. She lives for their stories, and she had been so worried about them when last they came to see her. Hannibal and Will are together again, on the same plane, at each other's sides before her. Will knows that this is what all children crave: their parents united and their attention focused on pleasing, playing, entertaining. Abigail has never looked as cheerful as she does now, with the stream bubbling behind her and the sun through the trees. Will is looking at the peak of her happiness, in the face of all she has ever known.

            _I ate his face._ Will's eyebrows rise. _We couldn't linger... the police were approaching the house. We could hear them. There were only strips of his skin left on his skull, but he was still breathing. Still gurgling, sentient. Ah, Jack. He was so strong. In the end, I bit his jugular, to save time._

            Abigail's eyes are alight, as a child would look hearing about their favorite superhero finally destroying the villain. "And it's all because he thought you were his friend, right, Daddy?" She looks over at Hannibal. "But he didn't get it, did he? Family... blood means more. Right?"

            "That's right, Abigail," Hannibal says. He takes one of her small white hands in his. Runs his thumb over her knuckles. "Nothing is more important than blood."

            Abigail sighs in a satisfied fashion. She perks immediately, looking from Hannibal to Will. "And then? And then what happened?" The flash of her hair as she turns catches the sun and it shames even the most vibrant of autumn leaves.

            Will laughs.

            Hannibal smiles at her. "And then we came here to see you, Abigail."

            Abigail whines that there must be more than that, some part they are leaving out, and Hannibal assures her he is telling all of it. Will watches, slightly uneasy, and his laughter dies down to a lone smile. Hannibal is leaving something out. He is leaving out that when they returned to the palace, they first took time to sit in the foyer, the Norman Chapel. Hymns were lolling on the air, candles lit. Hannibal and Will sat in one of the pews. The gold and soft singing surrounding them.

            Will's hands trembled, folded, in between his knees as he sat hunched over. His whole body taut, clenched and tense. Feet tapping insistently against the floor, echoing. Little sounds of frustration escaped him, and choked noises, that sounded like sobbing, or half-sobs, or trying to sob. Will bit his lower lip in agony. He moved one hand to his hair and tore. He was miserable and yet tears would not come. His face red and dry. Why? What was wrong with him? Why has he not been able to–

            Then, softly, a touch rested on his tremoring knee. Will paused, looked at Hannibal's hand there. He whined a little, then looked up at his packmate's face, which was calm and yet flooded with tears. Will saw this and let out a thin sound of horror and realization. He held Hannibal's hand in both of his and screamed, pushed his forehead into Hannibal's chest, and felt tears run down the length of his horns, into his hair, into the shells of his ears, as the choir sang again.

            Presently, Will looks from Abigail to his packmate. Hannibal catches the glance, holds it for a second, then knowingly turns back to the frail girl, in her plaid and galoshes, with her countryside eyes. "Abigail, it's time for us to go."

            Abigail's lips purse. "So soon? But you only just got here, Papa. Daddy, please tell Papa you want to stay longer with me."

            Will takes her other hand, the one Hannibal is not holding. _I want to stay here forever, Abigail. We both do. But if we stay any longer, we'll be caught._

            She sighs. "Ah, I guess I understand. When you come back, will you tell me more stories?"

            Will says nothing.

            Hannibal nods. "Yes, Abigail."

            She looks like a doll in her clothes. She squeezes both their hands tightly, then releases. As Hannibal and Will take steps backwards, Abigail's soft, faraway expression melts, and to the surface comes something else, placid and still as frozen water. She raises one of her hands and pushes long hair around her shoulder, away from her neck to reveal the left side: bloody and torn, as Hannibal has left it.

            She says, "I'm so glad you didn't let Jack do it." She touches a finger to the ripped flesh. "This is for family only."

            Will watches her: the slow stroke of one white finger against a bloody gash. He nods, in increments at first, so slow, and then faster, his heart rate up. Hannibal nods once, low, in something resembling a bow. They both turn, walk back towards the palace, and when they reach the lanai, they turn back once to see Abigail. She stands on the stream's pebbly shore, arms waving in broad arcs over her head.

*

Blue moves to pink in the sky and the rainclouds thin. Baltimore is wet and heaving. Baltimore wails in outrage, its sirens blearing, its lights flashing blue and red on every corner, its policemen out on foot, with German shepherds and guns and riot gear. Baltimore has left its tranquilizers behind. Baltimore has smoke bombs at the ready, and bulletproof vests on. Baltimore has taken the proffered hand of the FBI and together they fortify the streets. They tell civilians to stay inside, behind locked doors. Baltimore must confess, in no uncertain terms, the failure of its mental hospital and the dead who lay in the wake of that failure. Baltimore must confess Alana Bloom. Baltimore must confess Jack Crawford. Baltimore, too, must confess the death of two young officers who were the first to arrive to Jack Crawford's home, and were found with their heads bent backwards and their Glock 22s stolen.

            Baltimore must apologize for its missed shot. They will take aim again. And they promise they will not miss.

*

Will's back slams up against the wall at the back of the building, his whole body covered in sweat and past-rain and grass and blood. His curls stick to his forehead, and his eyes are half-open. Will holds his Glock out towards the opening of the narrow alleyway. The sound he makes is hard-labored breathing giving way to laughter. Hannibal's noises are the same as he rams his shoulder into the back door of the building, once, twice, fervent against the boards they have used to close it up. Lamplights in the distance begin to fade. They bow to the light of the oncoming dawn.

            Sirens wail.

            Hannibal breaks through. His Glock is tucked into the back of his pants. He too is sprayed with another's blood, dotted across his cheek like a design. Will follows him inside the darkened building, reliant on Hannibal, for though he has been here before, he has not been this way. Indeed did not know such a way existed. The two of them push over an old, nearby bookcase made of now rotted wood. It blocks the door in a haphazard fashion. Hannibal walks then through a hallway, and another door, which is unboarded. Will follows, looking up, around, fondly.

            Through another door, which is boarded. Hannibal and Will shove their shoulders against it in tandem, and it breaks easier. When this one opens, Will is overcome with scents like a floodplain: at the top, dust and mothballs. Then, beneath that, lays some sort of library scent, or of books, even though they have all been long confiscated and the bookshelves that line the upper level of the office are empty. Then, quieter, beneath that and secretive, is Hannibal's old scent, how it once was when Will first came to meet him, how it was before their scents had mingled and mixed so fantastically.

            Will breathes in. He stands amidst Hannibal's old office. Rugs rolled up and taken, most of the furniture covered in white sheets. Drawings gone. The long windows at the head of the office are half-boarded, and through them shines some soft pink light that is still hazy with remembered rain.

            Will looks at all of it and feels a tender agony.

            "I can remember every conversation we ever had in here, Will," Hannibal says. He lingers at the chair he used to always occupy for sessions, which is now draped in a heavy cloth. Hannibal slides it off, revealing the black upholstery. "It's playing in my mind like cinema."

            Will smiles, leans back against the covered desk. The ridge bumps at the gun in the back of his pants, and he pulls it out, sets it beside him.

            _I'm not as good with memory as you, Dr. Lecter. But I can... feel it. Like we are, our old selves, moving around in this room. Talking. When you touched me. Those times are moving through me. This room is..._

            "Where everything merges," Hannibal says.

            _Where everything merges._

            There is silence between the two of them, and sirens rise into it, maybe two streets over. Will looks up, and through a horizontal crack between boards at the window, pink and gold begins to flood the room insistently. It will not be contained.

            Will walks across the hardwood floor, takes the sheet from the chair across from Hannibal. It slides to the floor in a heap, and Will deposits himself into it. He looks over at his gun on the desk, then at the sunlight through the window. In it, dust motes float. Will takes a hand to his bull's horn, tugs distractedly.

            He hesitates for a half second. _I thought, in the hospital... I thought I was going to be able to convince Jack to let me go. I didn't tell you this. But I tried to explain to him, in this way, even though he wasn't you. And he looked at me. He really did look at me. So deeply I thought he could see._

            The right side of Hannibal's face is dawn. The left side blood-speckled. _Did you think he would release you after seeing you, Will?_

            _Release me or kill me. Once he realized there was a monster standing in front of him._

            Hannibal nods.

            _In the end, though, he just thought I was mad._

            "Do you think you are mad?"

            The question hangs heavy in the air. Will tugs against his rebellious horn and closes his eyes. The sirens keen, beep, close. Will opens his eyes again.

            _I am mad with you._

            Hannibal's gaze is steady, following the line of Will from top to bottom. "Yes," he says, "I am mad with you too, Will."

            The sirens buzz and whir and there are voices outside. Heavy footsteps that surround the building, and it leadens inside Will's head, bothering him to the point of distraction. His left eye squints, and he looks again at the window. The rainclouds have cleared from what little sky he can see, and the light pouring in is heavenlight. There are loud voices outside, aided by some sort of loudspeaker, and they are calling Hannibal and Will by name. The sound of such sears Will's mind, disquiets him to the point where he is no longer able to think coherently. He fights his body's urge to become rigid, fights his pupils and their instinct to narrow. Fights his teeth baring. He exhales, stands, and wanders past Hannibal back to the desk. He picks up the gun languidly in one hand, and when he turns back around, Hannibal stands too, having taken his gun from his pants.

            They come to stand close, half a foot apart. Will looks up into those haze-darkened eyes. And he has seen them over blood, and he has seen them over the breakfast table.

            Hannibal smiles, with something of a chuckle. He leans forward and places his forehead to Will's, flush against, it nearly feels like Hannibal is attempting to fuse with Will.

            Hannibal is laughing, and it is stilted, but it is laughing. He takes his open mouth to Will's forehead and places a firm kiss in the center. When he removes his lips, he places the barrel of the gun to the same spot he kissed.

            At the front door, past the waiting room, someone, someones are bashing against the wood. Someone is calling for Will Graham to come out. Someone is calling for Hannibal Lecter to show himself.

            Will raises his gun to Hannibal's temple, and moves it slightly, so it will hit direct. Hannibal angles his wrist, and looks into Will's wide eyes, those which he has looked into during sinew and sex. Will giggles.

            He bites his lower lip and says, "Don't miss, Hannibal."

            Hannibal swallows. "Don't miss, Will."

            They don't.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is that. 
> 
> Well, I hope you enjoyed this story. For those of you interested in seeing more of me mixed with Hannigram, a new story of mine will be dropping this weekend. And I'll be talking some TJoC stuff on Tumblr today probably. So, hopefully I'll see you guys around! If not, it's been real! You're a beautiful audience!

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk Hannigram to me at my Tumblr: www.metaphorgoneawry.tumblr.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[中文翻译] The Joy of Creation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6615433) by [daisy_q](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisy_q/pseuds/daisy_q)




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